RIDE OR DIE SAMPLE

A CRIME FICTION THRILLER

A. J. LAPE

CONTENTS

1. Ride or Die 12. Portal to Hell 133. Puke Patrol 224. God’s Hand 315. Bump & Run 446. Redneck Ranch 56

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CHAPTER 1

RIDE OR DIE

y name’s Darcy Walker, and I’ve always lived my lifeone way—ride or die. Thing is, that unabashed loyalty

—and some personality flaws—almost got me killed a fewtimes.

I’m a rookie police officer with the Los Angeles PoliceDepartment.

That ride-or-die attitude had certainly come in handy, butI’d grossly underestimated that the die part could literally be aneveryday thing. Where we all were born with the innate sensefor self-preservation, those of us in law enforcement had madea conscious choice to run to the danger and place someoneelse’s life ahead of our own.

Honorable? Most definitely.Suicidal? It depended on who you asked.Most nights were explosive action mixed with solemn bits

of reality. Others were writing reports in your squad car andushering drunks back to the land of the cognizant before theyslid behind the wheels of their cars. One thing I could say forcertain was that activity on the night shift was more than theday shift saw in an entire week—the biggest difference beingthat action and situations could flip on a dime.

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Dodging wayward bullets didn’t necessarily frighten me—especially since I’d tagged a bullet as a night delivery driver forRollo’s Ugly Pizza. As a law enforcement officer, or LEO, my jobwas to predict the bad things people were going to do in orderto keep them on a sound trajectory. Turns out I’d been giftedwith exceptional abilities in the who’s-about-to-implodedepartment, especially when the suspects were totalpsychopaths with zero conscience.

In my mere twenty-five days on the job, by the grace of God,I had no lasting scars and still showed up for work when thecity of Los Angeles mandated. But I still suffered from a case ofthe shock-and-awes at what my mind and body endured to gethere. I’d run every morning at five-thirty a.m., singing battlehymns at the top of my lungs. I’d been pepper sprayed in theface and taught how to properly wreck a car. I could triagevictims, identify street drugs, and survive Darwinian tests engi-neered to make me crack. I’d survived bodily projectiles, havingbeen puked on by fellow classmates who couldn’t handle anextra mile instructors demanded just because they were in aMachiavellian mood. My personal favorite? I’d wrestled with apolice officer posing as a homeless man, who propositioned meto play with his anaconda (I didn’t).

I had a harried past of next-level fear—surviving a kidnap-ping and school shooting, all in between discovering deadbodies and bringing their murderers to justice. In some ways,my past experiences prepared me for the chaos of walking abeat. Some incidents my actions caused. Others were thrustupon me with no chance to hammer out a deal or beg, Pleasedon’t.

The biggest please don’t I’d uttered to the universe was formy mother to not die. I’d learned at the tender age of nine thatsometimes we didn’t get do-overs—that things like life anddeath were set in stone. Purpose, however, could rise from theashes of loss and despair if you would let it. And I’d had the

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shield pinned to my chest, so I could make a difference in theworld.

I gazed out the window and placed my hand up against thecool glass, trying to find a glimpse of my mother in the twin-kling stars. Sometimes I could sense her—at weird, randomtimes and places. And it was a déjà vu that rattled me to mybones.

“Did I get it right, Momma? Are you proud? Scared? Disap-pointed? None of the above? All of the above? Rip off the Band-Aid, okay? Should I have stayed in pizza delivery?”

I winced, bracing for something bad.Please don’t answer yes to the last one.When I received no return opinion, I bit a chunk out of my

PB&J sandwich and shoved the non-answer where I did every-thing else that didn’t make sense—in the bedrock of my brainreserved for the therapist I’d never see.

I twisted in my seat, trying to locate my partner and fieldtraining officer, Barron Ramsey. We’d first become acquaintedwhen he answered my 911 call for assistance in rescuing awoman held captive by an Ugly Pizza customer. Ramsey hadnot always worked in this precinct, having begun his career inWatts. The Watts area was one of the toughest in LA, butRamsey requested a transfer to work under Captain LincolnTaylor. When Ramsey’s partner retired a few months prior,Ramsey wound up with me.

I’d only been on the force for a short while, but where myjob was not only to protect the good citizens of Los AngelesCounty but to keep my partner alive—somehow, I felt hisheartbeat like my own.

And Barron Ramsey? Well, he needed someone not only towatch his back but to keep his secrets.

Ramsey was working his way through the phonebook, i.e.,in the carnal sense, if you know what I mean. His tendency togo Ron Burgundy mostly occurred during his downtime, but I

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had a feeling those extracurricular activities were happeningduring his lunch break—which for the night shift (seven toseven in a twelve-hour compressed schedule) fell aroundone a.m.

We’d parked our squad car—a Dodge Charger referred toas our shop—in the lot of 7-Eleven off Westwood Boulevard andWeyburn Avenue. Ramsey had some business in a nearby hotel(translation: girl parts) that he said was important. I said,“Okay,” and he locked me inside the car with a window crackedlike a person would a dog.

At six foot one and cut like expensive marble, I understoodthe temptation of Ramsey. He had rich mahogany hair, navy-blue eyes, and a dimple in his right cheek as deep as a sinkhole.His smile was the first thing that lassoed a woman in. I called itthe rocker snarl—only one side of his lip quirked up whengrinning. An all-star athlete in high school, he’d planned tomake hockey a career until a clip to the back of the head lefthim out cold on the ice, ending his dream.

Ramsey was not the type to stew in his abrupt change ofplans, so he followed in his father’s footsteps and joined theacademy, patrolling for seven years. He was sharp, quick on hisfeet, and the first to answer an S.O.S. when an officer wasoutnumbered. Thing was, he was one of those officers his peerseither loved or hated despite his dedication to the shield. Someof the jealousy stemmed from Ramsey being able to have anywoman he wanted. And some originated from Ramsey’s smartmouth. My partner didn’t take even a minor ribbing and gavejust as good as he got. I had a feeling his current afternoondelight was getting a lot of him because this go around wasgoing into overtime.

He’d estimated his ETA to be fifteen minutes. He wasworking on thirty.

I licked some peanut butter off my fingertips and spoke intomy Apple Watch, sending him a text. “Bruuuuh. You’re killing

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me. Muzzle the shama lama, ding-dong, and bug outta there.And use protection, all right? Like seriously. You don’t need anextra tax deduction.”

I groaned and melted into my seat. It was a cloudy, earlyNovember morning, and the temp was holding steady at fifty-one degrees. Where LA was normally the land of sunshine,November marked the start of the rainy season, peaking at thebeginning of the new year. Unfortunately, it wasn’t rainingenough to put out the wildfires that sometimes appeared tostart themselves.

Checking my appearance in the reflection of my iPhone, Ihad a moment of silence in respect of the good hair day I’d hadupon rising. It died right around eight p.m. when Ramsey and Iwaded into a 243—domestic battery—between Ronnie andMaria Garcia. I got hit by a wayward fist.

The things I do for society.Despite being a reluctant (and hormonally frustrated)

twenty-one-year-old virgin, I sometimes debated the appeal ofrelationships when the players were as volatile as a block ofC-4.

While I attempted to fix my hair, I finished my last bite ofPB&J and switched the music to Yacht Rock Radio. Thumbingthe volume down a notch, I eyed the half-eaten doughnutRamsey had left in his seat. Ethics told me to leave it. Thatdoughnut, though, reminded me I was her b*tch.

Stuffing it in my mouth, I reached for my Big Gulp in theconsole and swallowed a drink down, doodling on a Targetreceipt until my pen ate a hole through the paper.

My personal life was in turmoil.Other than the unpredictability of my job, I had a boyfriend

I didn’t see live-and-in-person as much as I’d like. Somehow,we’d kept our love boat afloat, but I had to wonder what thefuture entailed. He was due to graduate from college in Mayand would inevitably make a mark in the professional football

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arena the moment his cleats hit the turf. Dylan Taylor was aHall of Famer in the making, and it was speculated he woulddouble down on his childhood dream of claiming the HeismanTrophy by winning it for a second time next month. He’dlogged twenty-five QB sacks in the season so far, and playoffshadn’t even started.

I pondered my own long-sleeved, navy uniform. It had twobuttoned pockets over each side of my chest with my nameplate over the right pocket and my badge above my heart. Theshirt was a size too big, so it could accommodate a sports bra,tank top, and body armor. On my chest was a bodycam abovethe tie clip that held my necktie in place. It activated once Ipulled my weapon or could be done manually. Around mywaist was a utility belt that held a taser, stun gun, handcuffs,ticket writer, baton, O.C. spray, and spare magazines of bullets.To top off the androgynous fashion, ugly, black cop shoes wereon my feet that were slip-resistant. I’d chosen this uniform andall it represented, but I’d grossly underestimated what it wouldfeel like for Dylan to be in one zip code with me in another…possibly permanently.

Not to mention, what it meant for my relationship with myfather and little sister. A little sister who’d just gone throughher first breakup and was bawling daily without me to lean on.

As if the universe longed to punch me in the gut more, rightthen I received a text from her on my watch. It was a little afterfour o’clock in the morning on the East Coast. A heartbreakdidn’t respect the normal sleeping hours.

Can you FaceTime? she messaged.I had a few minutes left on my lunch break. Finding my

phone in the cupholder, I dialed her number. “Hey,” I saidwhen she answered.

Save for the fact she was a nudist as a child, Marjorie,although preteen, was still the picture of a child sin hadn’tgotten ahold of yet. Clad in pink pajamas, her curly red hair

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stuck out like a beehive. She’d slept a little but definitely notrestfully.

She blinked big, blue eyes. “I’m just so sad,” she said. “Whydoesn’t any boy like me?”

My heart cringed. She was too young to worry about theopposite sex, but I’d never been a rational creature either. Halfthe problem was she’d skipped a grade and was around kidssometimes two years older. That promotion seemed like a goodidea at the time. In practice, it had been an epic fail.

“God has someone better, M,” I told her. Then I recycledwords about love and loss and how we couldn’t let toughmoments destroy us. I doubted it would lessen her pain, but atleast I’d hit all the points a Glamour magazine told me I should.

“Love you.” She yawned. “Going to try to sleep.”Hanging up with a guilt that choked me, a knock on the

window jarred me from the self-loathing. On instinct, Iwrapped my fingers around my GLOCK 22 .40-caliber. “Hey,bitch, you gotta twenty?” I heard a man say through the glass.

Mind you, I had on a badge, but the guy was three-sheets-to-the-druggie wind and felt no fear. “I’m on my lunchbreak…bitch,” I punted back to him.

Captain Lincoln Taylor, my boyfriend’s grandfather andsupervisor in the West LA Division, advised officers to stayin their lanes as long as possible. When behavior escalated,that was our cue to get involved. When the man knocked oncemore, I made a move to exit the car, but he shoved his hip intothe passenger side door, boxing me in. Half a smoking cigarettebalanced on his lower lip, and his smile was sharp and shiny—like a Moray eel poised to bite. His lips were burned and scabby—probably due to the butane lighter he used to ignite a crackpipe.

He repeated his, “Hey, bitch,” statement.Why can’t people leave a girl alone on her lunch break?“Dammit,” I muttered. I had a swear jar in my father’s house

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he used to insist I deposit change in when a naughty wordslipped out. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, I now allowedmyself one curse word a day. Sometimes it bled into two…orthree. Why had I chosen dammit? I liked to believe I was doingGod a favor and telling him who to take a closer look at. Youknow, if He was busy and all.

I changed tactics when the butthead kept fumbling with thehandle on my locked door. “What’s your name, sir?” I askedthrough the window I’d left a three-inch crack in for fresh air.

“Louie. Just Louie.”Of course, his name would be stupid. “Why don’t you step

aside, Just Louie, so I can exit my car and introduce myselfproperly?”

“Nope. Don’t need an introduction, but I’ll take your nameand number, baby.”

That wasn’t the first time I’d been asked for my digits sincemoving to California, especially when I delivered pizzas tofraternity houses. I pulled out my standard line, going oldschool Tommy Tutone. “Name’s Jenny,” I said. “Phone numberis eight, six, seven, five, three-o-nine.”

The joke was lost on Louie.There were many things I could do in a situation like the

present. I could talk, negotiate, pray he didn’t shoot me throughmy rolled down window, or I could pull on him and tell him toback away.

Slowly removing my firearm, I ordered him to step aside,but Louie elbowed out my window and came at me faster thanUsain Bolt going for gold. I landed flat on my back, sandwichedamidst the shotgun and rifle between Ramsey’s and my seats.Louie’s breath ghosted over my face, ripe with liquor, sweat,and a several-pack-a-day habit. I wasn’t sure what Louie’sendgame was, but his hand was too close to my unholsteredgun. As I wriggled underneath him, Louie somehow kept meon my back, his smoker mouth choking me with shaky breaths

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and a cigarette that refused to fall. I kneed him in the groin,getting nowhere. I attempted a headbutt with no success.Reaching for my ankle, I grabbed at my backup gun (HailMary), but couldn’t extend my hand past my calf. During thescuffle, I located a cigarette lighter that had fallen from hisshirt, flicked it on, gave it a few beats to cook, and then burnedhis forehead with the flame.

“Lick my sweaty balls, mother-trucker,” I growled. “Afteryou fry first.”

That got the effer off me.Next thing I knew, I heard Ramsey behind Louie, pulling

him out by his waist and taking him down in a body slam.Ramsey took the brunt of the fall, cracking his head on theasphalt with a loud kabam. Louie was too stoned to even ughfrom the sudden change of venue.

“Jesus H. Christ, Walker,” Ramsey cursed. He flipped Louieover and positioned his knee in his back.

Was that like Jesus’ middle name?Placing both hands over my ears, I hummed in a loud pitch.

I didn’t know a lot about religion, but even I knew youshouldn’t use Jesus’ name in an unholy veneration. I hissed likean adder. “Watch your tongue, Ramsey. I’ve already got enoughbad luck.”

Ramsey obviously didn’t worry about what Jesus thought.His conversation was sprawling with expletives, eyes wide withfear as he felt like I’d just cheated death.

I gripped the door frame and pushed the door wider,exiting the car while Ramsey helped Louie to a stand and askedhim to place his hands on the hood of our car. Searching hispockets, Ramsey found a baggy of weed, a couple of Addys, Z-bars, and a pack of cigarettes.

“Gimme another?” Louie asked. His cigarette was floating ina nearby mud puddle. He hadn’t even cared about his charges.Priorities and all.

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Ramsey tapped the bottom of the package for a freshcancer-stick then placed it in Louie’s mouth, setting it ablazewith the lighter I’d fried him with. While Louie took a longinhale to coat his lungs, Ramsey informed Louie he had himfor assault, disobeying an officer, and felony possession ofnarcotics. When he recited his Miranda rights and cuffed him,Louie simply said, “Cool.”

Right about then, I got a sick feeling in the pit of mystomach.

Louie muttered behind his cig, “Fat Tony sent me, and FatTony’s gonna be mad.”

Annnnnnnd that was the reason for the bad feeling.I massaged the migraine burrowing into the back of my

head. If I were a three-hundred-pound, sack-of-shiz butthead,where would I hide? The Vegas buffet.

Here was a little rewind of my limited association with FatTony. My boyfriend and I went to Vegas a week and a halfearlier. Fat Tony was the three-hundred-pound dumbass I beatin poker. Like I destroyed him…twice…taking home four grand.Fat Tony was crude, condescending, talked about my boobs,but Dylan and I let it play because I wanted the cash. In fact, Ireturned the flirtation, and the more I flirted, the more stupidhe got. So long story short? Not my fault he fell for my gameplan.

“So Fat Tony put a hit out on Officer Walker?” Ramseyseethed. His eyes went wide as the possibilities sank in.

Louie’s dead eyes got all misty with emotion. “No, Fat Tony’sin love with her. He’s been scouring LA, and a snitch told himshe rode with the chief ’s son.”

Ramsey’s father was the Los Angeles Police Chief—as in theboss of every boot and suit on the street. If I thought LincolnTaylor’s name, my mentor, held weight as the most indomitableforce to ever work vice, Chief Asher Ramsey reminded me ofthe tiger, Shere Khan, in The Jungle Book. Striking and poised

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while you watched him from afar, underneath his skin was awild predator who would rip you to shreds if you crossed histerritory.

“So who’s the snitch?” Honestly, I’d like to know the ID too.“He didn’t say.” Louie swallowed and glanced at me. “Fat

Tony said you ghosted right after you won. It hurt his feelings.”I repositioned my shirt, refastening the bottom button so I

was at least somewhat respectable looking. “Some of us havereputable jobs, Louie, and I’m not giving the money back.”

“Fat Tony doesn’t want the money. Just wants you and arematch. Blackjack this time.”

Ramsey dropped another JC. “And you were just going totake Officer Walker?” he asked.

Louie blinked. “Well, yeah. Fat Tony said she was the best-looking blond he’s ever seen. I have to agree.”

I was five foot ten, sort of green-eyed, with blond hair thatfell past my shoulder blades. Even though I was thin, mymuscles were defined, and I had a good butt. But this was LosAngeles—next year, the bulimic waif could reign supremeagain. Tipping the scales at one hundred and thirty pounds,though, made me feel like a cow in Hollywood.

When Louie asked if I was his type, I’d reached my mentallimit of dealing with men who’d tried to kidnap me—badmemory from the past.

“What happened here today isn’t exactly a Hallmark card,bud,” I said. “If you want to impress a girl, you might start withnot trying to kidnap her.”

“Exactly,” Ramsey agreed. “We’ve added attempted kidnap-ping to your résumé.”

Louie didn’t care. In fact, he was concerned with my choiceof career. “Why are you doing a job like this, sugar? I could’vereally hurt you.”

I wasn’t someone who normally sweated what the work-force considered the big stuff. The things I sweated were

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whether soup was still on sale when I went to the grocery, andif my tampon was going to do its job when I was in hot pursuit.“Listen, Louie,” I told him. “Thanks for the concern, but lay offthe crack. You look like the product of mad pumpkins that didthe nasty. And you had an angry daddy, and Momma pumpkindidn’t like it when Daddy took lovin’ to a hard place. So shesmashed him, and his seeds went all over your face.”

Ramsey snorted in laughter, then backpedaled butchuckled again even deeper. “Poetic, Walker.” After his laughdied out, his eyes did that soft thing that made women agree tolet him go Ron Burgundy. “You okay?” he asked.

Guilt was all over his face. Again, Ramsey’s secrets mightkill me before a suspect did.

I grabbed his gaze. “I’ve experienced worse,” was myanswer, and no truer statement had been uttered. So true I wasshocked I hadn’t left high school without a daily nerve pill.

After we let Louie suck his cigarette down to the butt, hespit it on the ground, and I toed it out, wadding it up with anapkin and tossing it in the floorboard of the shop. Placing hishand on Louie’s greasy hair, Ramsey steered him into the back-seat of the cruiser. Ramsey shut him inside and reclaimed hisseat behind the wheel. I slid in beside him and closed my door,yanking my seatbelt down to click it. As I studied my partnerpunching the key in the ignition, God himself knew BarronRamsey worried less than me. Whoever thought it was a goodidea to put us together was either smoking dope or hated thecity of Los Angeles.

Ramsey pulled out of the parking lot and joined Louiesinging, “Eight, six, seven, five, three-oh-niiii-eee-iione.”

After one stanza, I joined in.

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CHAPTER 2

PORTAL TO HELL

ust Louie,” real name Louis T. Dickerson, was booked andsent to the LA County Jail. Booking had a field dayprocessing Louie, not to mention my direct superior and

watch commander, Sergeant Cameron Pope. My boss was niceenough, but let’s just say if he needed a kidney, I wouldn’t offerthe donation. I had to explain my association with Fat Tonycame through gambling, and of course, I was rewarded with thecustomary Pope stare of death. Whatever. Beating Fat Tony hadbeen during my downtime, and last I’d checked, gamblingwasn’t illegal in the state of Nevada in a casino.

Although, it was frowned upon as an officer.Something that might have stunted my career path.Ramsey and I stood at attention in Sergeant Pope’s office in

the West LA Division early Thursday morning. Pope was watchcommand for the night shift, and as police sergeant, he was thefirst level of review for officers in the field and back at thestation. Watch Command was basically on staff for when yourshift went nuclear and a superior officer needed to be on thescene. Their role was to be the level head when officers couldbe tempted to rush to judgment. When at the office, thesergeant checked paperwork (which was digital and done on

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our MDT) to make sure incidents were properly documentedand procedure had been followed. Pope had read our report onDickerson three times, making sure we had noted the terms use

of force and attempted kidnapping, while including the drugsfound in his possession and the addition of Fat Tony allegedlyrequesting Dickerson take me by force.

In light of Dickerson’s words, Pope planned to issue a BOLOfor Fat Tony, but my guess was he was so far underground hewas living like a mole. Fat Tony might be dumb in the gamblingdepartment, but apparently, he was no shmuck. After somedigging around, we discovered he was a crime lord over a Vegasorganized crime syndicate.

My luck astounded me.Our hands were behind our backs, and it reminded me of

rookie evaluation at the academy—when instructors would sizeus up in one beat, letting us know if our uniforms were cleanenough, starched enough, and if our badges were fastened onat the appropriate angle. Pope started with Ramsey. WhereRamsey had two silver chevrons on his sleeves, marking hisposition as a PO3 or Police Officer 3, Sergeant Pope had threesilver hashmarks or service marks worn above the left cuff onhis shirt with each stripe representing five years of service. Hissleeves showcased an additional three silver chevrons above arocker, signifying he was a sergeant—a stark reminder I wasseveral positions below him since my sleeves were slick.

Tread lightly.

Opening my mouth, I filled in the blanks. “Fat Tony said Icouldn’t beat him. I didn’t like being challenged, so I provedhim wrong. Do I feel bad? No. Because he was fat and apervert.”

I imagined Fat Tony roasting like a pig over a flame.Pope scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “And Captain Taylor’s

grandson was with you,” he said. A question was in his voice.

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He narrowed his bland, brown eyes to the point that pupilsweren’t discernible.

“Yes. Dylan enjoys it when I excel. Namely, in this situation,when I reduced Fat Tony’s bank account by four grand.”

Ramsey snickered, trying his best to swallow it down. “Isee,” Pope said.

“It wasn’t like we went there to gamble, per se,” I explained.“Dylan took me to a show, and I got curious as we cut throughone of the casinos. I didn’t know I would be good.”

That was a lie. I was always good at gambling. A problemthat had presented itself as something I might need rehab for.

Ramsey chuckled once more and gazed down at his black,shiny shoes as though nothing else had ever been so fascinat-ing. Pope leaned back in his chair, threading his fingers behindhis neck and staring. Pope was an average-sized black man,biked to obsession, and had a bald spot on his head that hadworked its way into a peninsula shape. No matter how serious aconversation with him could be, I couldn’t help but think thestate of Florida had eaten through his hair. “Walker, there’s afine line between pessimism and realism,” he muttered. “All Iknow is it’s sometimes easier to brace myself for the bad. Thatway I’m not so surprised when it happens.”

A truism I ascribed to myself.“I’m interpreting that as you have little faith in my abilities,”

I said.I went Nelson Mandela and gave Pope my version of the I

Am the First Accused speech, declaring I longed for a free societywhere I could both gamble and do my job, living in harmonywith others—an ideal for which I was prepared to die. The jokenever gained any traction.

Pope continued with his death stare, and that could meanone of two things: number one, I’d hit the nail on the head; ornumber two, he was worried about me. I doubted he was

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worried. His innuendo could be more confusing than whyStonehenge had been built.

The hot seat was getting a little too toasty, especially whenhe reminded me I’d graduated as the first female cadet andsecond overall if you counted in the males. As I “yes, sir’d” andnodded appropriately, unfortunately Ramsey’s mouth got thebetter of him because it went against his nature to not pushback when someone he cared about was backed into a corner—a trait I could appreciate.

“Sergeant Pope?” he said when Pope placed the final periodon his lecture. “You know, it’s hard to get ahead on a LEO salary,and Walker wants to be able to—”

Buy a new car.…house.…something and not feel guilt or a debilitating panic the

second I walked out of a department store.There was an axiom in the world that if you worked hard

and played by the rules, you would get ahead. Not always true.My bank account reminded me daily.

Pope interrupted Ramsey with a snap, lasering his eyes intomine. “You delivered pizzas, right? Quite successfully, if rumorserves me correctly.”

I became an overnight phenom in the delivery businesswhen I got shot in an alley on live TV only to run inside UglyPizza to be shoved into a walk-in freezer by a killer. I’d been leftto die amongst pepperoni and sausage. Bad day. I detected ahint of sarcasm.

He sighed when Ramsey and I didn’t laugh. “If you needsome extra money, pick up some detail work.”

Before I could speak, Ramsey spoke for me. “Try collegefootball, Walker,” he joked sarcastically, a reference obviouslyto my boyfriend. “If you’re lucky, you will get felt up in thecrowd and maybe get a contact high from the weed.”

“Hard to pass up a winning combo like that,” I said breezily.

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Sergeant Pope closed his eyes in prayer and opened themafter about ten seconds. He reached down into an open sidedrawer of his desk, removing a gigantic sized bottle of Tums,fruit flavor. Tossing a handful in his mouth, he chewed andanswered, “Then find something else. You’re both dismissed.”

I didn’t want to do a mall or theater gig, and all the greatvenues were already taken by department veterans. That leftmy choices to guarding bodies at the morgue or directing trafficat college sporting events. Believe it or not, my first choicewould be the morgue. At least they wouldn’t be a-holes.

Ramsey and I threw Sergeant Pope a peace sign on exit, aninside joke of an Ugly Pizza customer of mine having quiteliterally peace’d-out when he was on his deathbed.

“Don’t let Sergeant Pope get to you,” Ramsey murmured.Glancing out over the dash, I focused on the double yellow

lines, realizing that would be next to impossible. “He’s my boss.Of course, he gets to me.”

“He’s just extra tough on you because of the respect he hasfor Captain Taylor.”

Perhaps or perhaps I reminded him of someone who washer own worst enemy. An accusation I’d heard before.

I took a drink of flat Coke between the console. As soon as Ideposited the cup back in the holder, Ramsey picked it up andfinished it off. There were a lot of things I wouldn’t tolerate inlife. Sharing a Coke was one of them, but with Ramsey, it wasdifferent. We did the ride or die thing daily. Already, I didn’tknow where he began and I ended.

“I think he likes you more than anyone,” he added.“Besides, it’s just his way.”

Wind had picked up, knocking up against the side of the carin a whooshing hiss, reminding us Los Angeles wasn’t the

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perfect, sunny city at all times. It was flawed, just like every-thing else.

A few hours later, Ramsey and I finished our shift by takinga call off Santa Monica Boulevard. Santa Monica B was home to10-7, a sports bar many law enforcement officers, first-respon-ders, and ex-military frequented when they were off duty.

Out of service in police code, 10-7 was what an officer calledinto Dispatch if he or she was taking a report, meal break,visiting the restroom, etcetera. The owner of the bar, Axel Grey,was retired LAPD, and his hamburgers were so famous, manyon patrol would have burgers delivered to them just so theycould eat them in their cars. With famous patrons and deco-rated officers burnishing the walls, 10-7 was a little less than asports bar and a little more than that famous bar on Cheers. Youknew everyone’s name, where they worked, who they workedfor, whether they were good at it, and whether they deserved tobe promoted or fired. And most importantly, who they had orwere currently shacking up with.

One thing I’d learned? Police officers appreciated goodgossip. It gave them something to talk about when they werecloistered away in their automobiles.

The call was regarding J.B. Hughes. Hughes was an EDP—what we in law enforcement referred to as an emotionallydisturbed person. Ex-military, he was a regular fixture at 10-7where he sat on a stool right outside the womens’ restroom. Hisidea of a good time was to do the voyeur thing and touch hisprivates when women went inside and out. Did he normally dothis? No. It happened after six beers wherein he would eventu-ally break out into song. People felt sorry for Hughes, so whenhe got to that point, he was usually kicked out of the pub, and aunit would take him home.

By the sound of the call that came in, Hughes had his daysand nights mixed up, showing up for lunch several hours early.He currently was on the sidewalk, talking to the air.

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Ramsey and I exited our shop, approaching slowly. Whenofficers approached someone they felt to be unstable, we keptour hands on our hips—closest to our guns and tasers. It wasRamsey’s turn to take the lead, but I drew the short strawbecause Hughes had developed a soft spot for me. Besides thefact he regularly liked to play touchy-feely, Hughes was a rock-ing-chair-in-front-of-Cracker-Barrel type of guy. Problem was,there didn’t have to be a Cracker Barrel on this side of thewestern seaboard. He had a rocker in the back of his beater van,and if he wanted to drop it in the middle of I-5, he would—anddid. I’d pulled him off a busy street last week while I was offduty.

“Hey, Hughes. It’s Officer Walker,” I said. “What has you inthe middle of the street?”

Hughes was about twenty pounds underweight with agraying beard and black hair falling past his shoulders. Hisjeans fell far below his waist, and his black sneakers were full ofholes. It was doubtful he’d had a bath in the last decade.

“I’m closing the portal to Hell,” he said.That was a new one, but I found my eyes darting around

anyway. “The portal to Hell? I didn’t know it was open.”“Opened up right around five a.m., and the guys in the bar

don’t seem to care.”The bar had been closed for hours—God only knew how

long he’d been trying to send Satan back to his homeland.“If we help you close it, will you let Officer Ramsey and I

drive you home?” I asked.“Do you pray?” he asked me.“I attempt it.”Hughes gazed heavenward. “You need to pray, Walker.

Everyone needs to pray. Do you see them?” he asked. Heglanced around wide-eyed, and I had to admit, I began to worryit was the end of the world, and I might wind up on the wrongside of eternity. An old woman on the other side of the street

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felt the same. She had a crucifix in her hand, looking at thesame nothingness I was staring at.

I took a tentative step closer to Hughes as Ramseyapproached him from behind. “You need to eat better,” I said.“When you don’t eat right, these weird things happen to you.”

Hughes puffed his chest out. “I don’t need food. Super-heroes don’t need food.”

It felt like I was swinging at a fastball. “Sure they do. God’schosen need food more than anyone.”

Hughes lifted one dirty, bushy brow. “They didn’t tell methat in superhero school. They barely covered closing portals.”

I was pretty sure Hughes was off his meds. How else couldyou explain wanting to close the portal to Hell? Problem was,he had post-traumatic stress disorder to boot. One too manytours in war-torn countries had fried him. Add on some alco-hol, and it always went downhill fast.

I tossed up a few prayers and pressed against some imagi-nary force field Hughes placed my hands on. Apparently, itworked after a few seconds of pushing, according to the look oftriumph on his face. After we saved the world, Ramsey and Ibrought Hughes to the squad car, steering him into thebackseat.

Hughes’ glassy eyes stared into mine, satisfied we’d doneour jobs.

“Don’t worry about what I eat, Officer Walker. I get morethan my share of protein. A beer is like seven pieces of bread.”

“Then that’s your problem,” I said. “You need to balance outall those carbs with some protein and vegetables. When wasthe last time you had a decent meal?”

“Chick-fil-A. Two days ago. That’s like a Jesus place, youknow? Jesus likes chicken.” He paused. “But he doesn’t like thischicken sandwich war going on. Do you know you guys are mybest friends?”

I legit got a little misty because that was probably true—

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maybe even true about the chicken. Ramsey closed Hughesinside, and in two beats, he joined me in the front seat, himbehind the wheel. “Would you like us to get you some break-fast?” he asked Hughes, turning around to face him. “Thenwe’ll take you home so you can get in your rocking chair andrest up. Closing the portal to Hell can really take it out of aman.”

At the mention of food, Hughes leaned forward, gaggedtwice, and emptied his stomach all over the back of thesquad car.

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“I

CHAPTER 3

PUKE PATROL

can’t believe you puked in our shop, Hughes,” Ramseyhissed.“Lighten up, Francis,” I muttered. I used to block out most

profanity. Now I heard it so much that my mind couldn’tkeep up.

“Who’s Francis?” Hughes asked. “Jesus, it’s just an idiom,” Ramsey muttered.“Is Francis a friend of Jesus?” Hughes added.Ramsey blew out a curse.I slid my eyes to Ramsey. “Idioms and metaphors are lost on

Hughes. Keep it simple.”“That’s right,” Hughes agreed. “I need simple.”Here was the thing about a squad car. We had to deal with

the stench of the suspects we pulled in for the day. At any giventime, our car could have the tangy smell of blood or the sweatydesperation of a junkie looking for the next fix. Maybe evenindustrial disinfectant that sometimes gave me an asthmaattack even though I didn’t have breathing problems. Evenprayers of desperation had a scent, but right then, it was vomit.Where we’d picked up Hughes for disorderly conduct andplanned to drop him off at his house to sleep it off, his puke

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changed things. His choice right then was to get bookedbecause we couldn’t leave him on his front porch for his kids tofind him. Well, we could, but I had a soft spot for his kids. Itwasn’t their crime to endure if their dad occasionally diddumbass things.

We pulled into the station a little before seven a.m. WhileRamsey dragged Hughes off to the holding tank, I got behindthe wheel and drove our cruiser to the garage. The departmentcontracted out a biohazard team to clean up vehicles for a fee,so we normally didn’t have to touch the stuff. Since Hughes’svomit was mostly fluid and what smelled like pure grain alco-hol, I got a jumpstart on the disinfection because the germa-phobe in me couldn’t let it wait. Parking the car right above adrain in the floor, I grabbed the hose from the wall, openedboth back doors, and let her rip. After five minutes of labor, Iquit hoping for a miracle and considered it success when thelast of the vomit and what looked like beer nuts went down thedrain. I glanced around the garage as boisterous, teasinglaughter could be heard from all four corners. Oftentimes, I’dbeen the butt of jokes in high school. Things weren’t muchdifferent in Los Angeles.

Douchebag levels had hit critical mass.Holding my fist up, I shook it in their direction. Thing was,

my middle finger wouldn’t cooperate and stayed straight upbecause I’d broken it, and it hadn’t healed right. The d-bagscould interpret that however they wanted. I honestly didn’tcare.

Detective Nathaniel Mayfield came up to stand beside me,throwing his arm around my shoulder. “Heard you and Ramseyclosed the portal to Hell.”

“We did. Unfortunately, it didn’t suck you in before itclosed.”

Mayfield threw his head back and laughed. After I redun-dantly recounted what I knew Ramsey had probably told the

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world, Detective Mayfield took the hose from my hand andwrapped it around the hook on the wall. As a rookie, I was alow woman on the totem pole, which was why I’d landed nightshift work. Mayfield worked zombie hours because he’d landedas the top bullet of someone’s sh*tlist when a case went side-ways ten years earlier. He’d basically been put out to pasture,and his findings and reports were turned over to the A-team atthe end of his shift for them to solve—and subsequently get allthe glory during daylight hours.

About my height, Mayfield was black with dark brown,graying hair and eyes that held a lot of turmoil—turmoil thatcame from seeing one too many murder scenes. His act ofchivalry was dead though. Puke patrol would do that to a girl.

Striding back into the station, I made myself a jumbo cup ofcoffee and readied myself mentally to do the rest of my paper-work. For police officers, the goal was to be on the street. As aresult, reports were done while sitting in the car on our MDT(mobile data terminal) or at the end of the shift if we werediverted to another call, turning a twelve-hour workday intothirteen if an officer was deficient in time management skills.

I found my favorite spot on the edge of the detectives’station right outside the Robbery-Homicide and Gang andNarcotics Divisions. Further back was vice. I liked being withinearshot of the suits, hearing how they secured scenes, theirthought processes, who they had on their radar and who theyconsidered low level and a big player on the street.

Firing up a computer—reports were digital—I cracked myneck and rolled my shoulders around. After I’d realigned myspine, I started with Louie Dickerson and his association to FatTony. Ramsey and I divided up who would write the officialreport on each call. I could type fast, starting with giving thestep by step of what Ramsey and I had encountered. Whenfinished, I then provided an officer’s statement, which was moredetailed. Here was where I occasionally got into hot water. I

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would give my opinion on someone’s guilt or innocence andhow they struck me as an individual—e.g., they talked a lot, ortalked too little, had shifty eyes, or made lewd comments aboutmine or even Ramsey’s body. Or police officers in general.Once, a report of mine was read at roll call, garnering severallaughs because of the initialisms I used—DF, MAS, CB, orNHAA—defined as dumb f*ck, mean as sh*t, convenientlyblind, and no help at all. I shrugged off any discomfort. Maybeit would help the detective assigned to the case if a felony wascommitted.

While Louie was on my mind, I made a quick field informa-tion card, or FIC, on him. FIC’s were normally scrawled onindex cards, documenting who officers contacted, where andwhen. We made them and left them in our glove compartment,so if a crime occurred in that location, we could run referenceon who was in that area and question them to see if they’dnoticed anything. Louie was from Vegas, but I made oneanyway just to keep track of Fat Tony’s couriers.

As I finished up report number five, Officer Jon Bradshaw—my friend from Cincinnati who’d moved to LA with me,chasing the same dream—brought in his first arrest. He hadsomehow scored a morning shift, despite being a rookie—thebutthead.

From one glance at the suspect, it was apparent he was amember of Slavic Power, an international, organized crime-group of degenerates who functioned more like the mob thanyour traditional gangbangers. Other than the normal murder,assault, and robbery, SP as their street named called them, wasknown for being in the firearms business.

Grumpy, my nickname for Bradshaw, was of stocky buildand about an inch taller than me with a scar in his eyebrowfrom head-butting one of our friends in high school. Taking thebaldheaded tattooed man to booking, he then came back andstood in front of my desk, readying to hit the streets.

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“Jesus, people are crazy,” he said, “and I’ve only been on theclock for forty-five minutes. The asshole I just hauled in hadenough guns in the back of his van to underwrite World WarIII.” He smiled or what resembled a smile on his normally stoicface. “I heard you dragged in an interesting case.”

I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and loosened mytie propping my ugly cop shoes on the seat in front of me,trying to relax. “Yeah,” I said. “It was J.B. Hughes. We pickedhim up outside 10-7 where he was closing the portal to Hell.”

“Are we mere mortals safe?”“Best I can tell, unless a few demons snuck out.”Grumpy yanked the bun on my head that had become

lopsided during the portal closing. “Also heard some suspecttried to shoot you on your lunch break.”

One thing about Grumpy, he was good at gleaning thestation gossip. “That would also be correct.”

“And?” he pushed.I erased a pencil smear on the paper before I typed them

into the database. No one would ever see my notes, but I keptthem for myself in case I would ever be called to testify on aspecific incident. I gave Grumpy a grin. “I burned him with hisown lighter.”

“Appreciate the improv. So Fat Tony sent him?”I’d told Grumpy about Fat Tony right after I won the four

grand. Evidently, Grumpy’s snitch got the story straight.“That’s the official story, and it sucks.”“Look on the bright side. Today is supposed to be rainy.

Ergo, it will suck for everybody. Maybe even Fat Tony.”“Good point. I’m being too negative about the whole thing.”Grumpy’s and my barometer of what constituted a good

day had never really jived with the rest of the world. I’dwitnessed my mother’s death, and Grumpy had six brotherswho’d spent more time behind bars than enjoying thefreedom American’s innately had. Grumpy came from a long

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line of drug addicts, slackers, and pharmacologists of theillegal drug kind. And as a result, many in our hometownwrote him off before they ever gave him a chance. The longer Iwas in police work, the more I realized God put people likeGrumpy on Earth to remind the masses to not alwaysprejudge.

Coming from a household of instability, Grumpy hadturned into quite an impressive negotiator. That would trans-late into good boyfriend material if he ever found the perfectcatch. Unfortunately, I could tell he had just left Ivy Morrison’sapartment because I smelled her perfume on his shirt.That narcissistic beeyotch occasionally wore Can Can by ParisHilton. And God knew Grumpy did did.

When I made an exaggerated sniffing sound, he gave me ararely seen smile. Fate itself had made my transition to LA alittle less comfortable than I would’ve liked. My arch nemesis,Ivy, decided to attend college at UCLA—hoping to find cine-matic stardom. After a nuclear breakup and too many publicmeltdowns to count, she and her longtime boyfriend broke upnot long after graduation, and let’s just say she didn’t putherself on the shelf for long…Grumpy was the rebound.

Again…and again…and again.While she dated married men in between.After I sent my reports to Watch Command, I made my way

to my 4Runner. Grumpy fell in line behind me and snagged myarm, giving me a side hug. We’d traveled all the way fromCincinnati together in my car. A person learned a lot of thingsabout someone when you traveled across the country together—the biggest being that men didn’t flinch at breaking wind infront of an audience as much as women did.

“Staying at Paddy’s?” I asked, referring to the room herented from one of our mentors.

“When my shift’s over,” he murmured.I grabbed his gaze and unleashed the rubber band holding

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my bun in place, shaking out my hair. “You know you’re a slut,”I joked. And Ivy was too, but I didn’t say it.

Grumpy gave me that brain-dead look—the face a mangave the world when he couldn’t see his significant other’sfaults. My altruistic desire to land him a date worthy of himwould be the end of me before Ramsey’s afternoon delights. Asif the universe heard my thoughts, right then Officer HollandHemming strode past, and if there was any question whetherGrumpy was totally committed, I had my answer.

He groaned…and ran his tongue over his upper lip.My brain began singing Taylor Swift songs.Hemming was hotter than the Earth’s inner core and the

type that made your eyes pop into a holy crap. Her hair was red.Eyes an aquamarine-blue. She graduated from the academywith us, the second female graduate behind yours truly. Shewas fast…I was faster. She was smart…I was smarter. But shehad something I didn’t have: big boobs. Rolling with men 24/7,I’d learned most appreciated a great set of mammary glands.

Grumpy, I’d discovered, was a boob man—probablymommy issues if I wanted to go the Freudian route, whichmeant he’d weaned too soon.

“Hey, Hemming,” I said. Hemming slowed her gait, waving big. “Hey. Sorry, I gotta

roll. I was just called in to sub for Benton. His wife just wentinto labor. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve had about twelvehours of sleep in two days. I can’t get used to working nights.”

The transition hadn’t been difficult for me since I was anight delivery driver, but my fellow rookies were strugglingwith acclimating to the schedule. No one cared if we liked ourschedules though—we were rookies. We were barely one notchabove the bed bug. “Caffeine it up,” I told her. “Works for me.”

She held up a white YETI full of what I assumed was coffeeas she waved over her shoulder. “Got it covered. See you later,Jester,” she said to me. “You, too, Bradshaw.”

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Only a handful knew of my alter ego, Jester. As Jester, I’dfound murderers, kidnappers, and personal identity thieves. I’dhelped a classmate prove his girlfriend was a cheat and rubbedshoulders with a sociopath who tried to use that name andframe me. Jester’s name was even on a 911 transcript somewherein Cyberland when I called in a school shooter sophomoreyear. That transcript had surprisingly never been madepublic…shocking in a world that loved the gory details. Out inLA, Grumpy let it slip that my nickname was Jester. As a result,everyone on the force had begun to call me their favorite clown.I wasn’t sure that was good, but then again, there were a lot ofthings that weren’t good.

Grumpy watched Hemming’s rear end sway all the way intothe precinct. A good conversation with him was two wordsinstead of one, but if he ever longed to be transparent, I was theone he confided the deep, dark secrets of his soul.

“She’s got the best body,” he muttered, “but I’m not a cheat.”He and Hemming dated for about a minute a couple of

months ago during a break from Ivy, and he’d never gottenover it.

If I could dissolve into the ductwork, right then would bethe optimum time. I made a mediocre attempt to talk toGrumpy about his choice in women. “Did you ever think Ivymight not be America’s best?”

He pursed his lips. “Thanks for judging, Officer Judgypants.And just so you know, Ivy goes to church now. She’s thinkingabout joining the Church to the Stars.”

Let me play Devil’s Advocate. The Church to the Stars justmight be a cult. Members were required to live in a huge egali-tarian gated community complete with guard dogs and nightlycurfews. The church encouraged new converts to leaveeveryone behind who didn’t share in their newfound faith.Although I wouldn’t consider myself anyone’s moral compass, Ididn’t understand the secrecy behind a religion that was

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supposed to save people from themselves. And the biggest coupde grâce? Members signed over nearly one hundred percent oftheir weekly paychecks all in the name of doing God’s work. Ibelieved in benevolence—and what many Christians referredto as a tithe check—but not when your so-called safe haventhreatened to kick you out of the community if you didn’tcomply.

“And you believe they’re all about Jesus?” I asked.His brows furrowed into a frown. “Aren’t all churches?”I gave him my patented you’re-an-idiot face. Other than Ivy

being a textbook narcissist, the real screw-job was that Grumpyhung on her every word. “You shouldn’t have to buy God,Grumpy. Even I know that. And when you do, it’s a cult.”

He didn’t say anything, but I was hoping I’d at least sown aseed of doubt. I hit him up with a goodbye and thumbed thekey fob on my pearl-white 4Runner with tan leather seats. Mygrandfather had purchased it for my graduation, and my fatherhad requested the color be white because insurance on whitevehicles was cheaper since they were more visible on the road. Iwasn’t sure that statement held weight in LA. All I knew was Iwas dirt-poor, only eating three squares because I lived with myboyfriend’s grandparents and two meals a day were usually onthem. Not exactly a lot to be proud of, but God help me, a girlhad to start somewhere.

As predicted, traffic was straight out of the mouth of Hadesas soon as I hit the interstate. I sucked in a big breath of air andmorphed into that Randy Newman song “I Love LA” anyway.

Well, most days…but definitely not during morning rushhour.

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M

CHAPTER 4

GOD’S HAND

y mother was murdered when I was nine. Workingthrough that grief was an everyday process—helped

along by love, prayer, and a daily prescription from my localpharmacist. When the medicine didn’t exactly agree with me, Iwent solo and learned to compartmentalize the things thatbothered me. Or better yet, I tried. Having been diagnosed asADHD before her death, my brain oftentimes couldn’t find theoff switch anyway, and no amount of compartmentalizing inthe world could calm the nervous tics or tendency to feelcaged in.

That being said, my tendency to be a verb sometimes camewith a cost because as an officer I did one thing—watch peopleall day, every day…inside the darn squad car. Sometimes I got toact on my hunches when people did reckless things. Others, Ihad to punch out and realize that bad people got away, and Ididn’t get to close out a case. As a police officer, that left ahollow feeling in the center of my chest, especially as I saw theripple effect of someone’s choices. How those choices didn’t justaffect them but those around them. Their loved ones. Theirenemies. The people in their neighborhood.

Barely a month in, there were days I felt defeated…like I

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didn’t do enough for the people of my community. And likealways, it didn’t take a shrink to tell me I was still trying to savethe mother who died right before my eyes.

Living with Lincoln and Alexandra Taylor had been ablessing in disguise—a blessing because she was a phenom-enal cook (her desserts could make you see Jesus) and ablessing because Lincoln was the captain of the West LA Divi-sion. He’d taught me patience—or at least the most patience anADHD person like me could ever achieve.

“Are you on your way home, engoni?” Alexandra askedwhen I answered her call en route.

Engoni was Greek for granddaughter. Alexandra obviouslyhad high hopes for the longevity of mine and Dylan’s relation-ship. Didn’t we all. “Yeah. Long day,” I told her. “I gotpuked on.”

“Ah, police work can be very challenging.” Even at her age,her voice was sultry and seductive. The woman aged like a finewine.

“Don’t I know it. Are you at the shop?”“I’m taking some bougatsa out of the oven. Food is in the

refrigerator for when you wake up. Pixie and I will see youlater.”

Alexandra worked every day at her bakery, Baptiste’sBakery, in WeHo. It had this cute little pink awning over thedoor with wall-to-wall glass cases inside she couldn’t keepstocked with baked goods. What many didn’t know was thatwhen Lincoln worked in vice, it had served as command centralfor the undercovers in his unit. According to Alexandra,Lincoln’s old unit still dropped by weekly for free food andprivate conversation. Sometimes, Lincoln joined them. Others,he was behind his desk, serving as a captain until retirement.I’d hung with his vice unit while in high school and helpedthem bring down a baddie named Crash Falcon. Lincoln hadan informant then who ratted out Falcon’s every move—turned

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out it was a teenager named Pixie who worked for Alexandra,and her father was on Falcon’s payroll.

When Pixie, real name Penelope, became orphaned,Lincoln and Alexandra adopted her.

Pixie had been posing as someone younger than her, but inreality was several years older. She had just graduated highschool and was taking a gap year to find herself, working withAlexandra. Pixie, though, hadn’t found anything, regularlywalking her wild side on the weekends. She’d recently beencaught sneaking into Compton to pursue a budding romancewith a Compton King—gangbangers who’d rather shoot firstand ask questions later. When I questioned her about thebudding romance, she thankfully decided to pull the plug.

Fifty minutes later, I pulled into their neighborhood in BelAir. Lincoln and Alexandra had previously lived in a modest LAcommunity, but a few years back, their wildly successful sonand daughter—Colton was a VP running the security depart-ment at a cosmetics company, and Willow was a super model—gifted them with an eight-figure dream home in a gatedcommunity. The two-story home was Mediterranean style andblended ultramodern details like a voice-command kitchenwith a dramatic yet timeless design. It consisted of sixbedrooms, a library, and media room—the design spotlightingmajestic canyon views. A sweeping staircase sat in the middleof the open space, and structural columns were disbursedthroughout, reminding me of a page out of Architectural Digest.The upgrade had been difficult for Lincoln and Alexandra towrap their heads around. Me too, but it was nice not to beslumming in a one-bedroom roach motel.

Punching my thumb on the garage door opener on my sunvisor, I pulled inside once given the all-clear and then activatedthe door into the down position. Popping my car door wide, Igrabbed my purse with one hand and removed my ugly copshoes and socks with the other. I didn’t want to track Hughes’

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vomit inside. Leaving them outside to air out, like every day,once I twisted the doorknob, my dog, Lucky, greeted me. Afawn-colored boxer, he was a present from Dylan when I relo-cated to Los Angeles. He had a cropped tail and ears and awhite stripe down the center of his black face. Four white sockscovered his feet, and a white number seven marked his chest. Iwas one of those annoying pet people who treated their animallike a child.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, squatting down and patting him on thehead. “Bad night. I got puked on.”

Lucky wagged his stumpy tail and tilted his head to theside, deciphering what puke was. Dumping my purse on thecountertop, I grabbed a doggie treat from a cookie jar andpitched it in his direction right as Dylan’s grandfather enteredthe room. He should’ve been braving traffic on his way to work.Instead, he stood in front of me, wanting a rundown of my shift.Lincoln Taylor could’ve already retired but couldn’t seem topermanently clock out.

Legendary for eating a lot of lead and still with a workingheartbeat, Lincoln was a striking man at six two or so with gray-ing-brown hair and eyes the color of a rich cup of espresso. I’dbeen with him on a murder scene, and he’d been as imposingas the man who operated the guillotine. But despite being infull navy uniform having two silver bars on his collar that toldthe world he was a captain, in his kitchen, he was merely myboyfriend’s grandfather. All cuddly and full of concern.

He dragged me into a hug and kissed me on the forehead,pulling back to communicate eyes only. “You heard,” I said,referring to Fat Tony. I dumbly giggled.

Lincoln blew out a weary breath. “I heard.”“Yeah, well, Fat Tony apparently wants to take a bite out of

Darcy Walker, but it’s not gonna happen.”Lincoln’s eyes burned into mine while he maintained his

grip on my shoulders. “I’ve already spoken to the District Attor-

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ney’s office. Dickerson is going to be warming a cell for a while.His bail will more than likely be set high because you are apolice officer.” He hesitated, his eyes boring into mine. “Popehas someone on this?”

I backed out of his arms, loosening my tie even more. “Doeshe have a car on me? I don’t know,” I offered, adding a shrug,“but he said he would take care of it.”

“Then he’ll do it,” Lincoln promised. “But dear, I need youto let him take care of it.”

He knew my tendency to scratch that itch I had to occasion-ally go Nancy Drew.

I would try—I didn’t exactly want to bulldoze my career orget written up for insubordination.

Lincoln strode around me and flipped the switch on thecoffee maker, giving it a few seconds to wake up. Quicklyfollowing was a click, hiss, and soothing drip. “So I hear youalso got introduced to the vomit of J.B. Hughes,” he said overhis shoulder.

Lincoln’s list of informants was so long it could probablystretch across the continental U. S.

I yawned, placing my hand over my mouth. “Yeah. He’ssleeping it off in jail.”

Lincoln chuckled, and his two dimples made an appear-ance. After some chitchat while his travel mug filled up, Ihugged him goodbye and trudged up the stairs. Once in myroom, I removed my badge and ripped the tie from my neck,throwing my uniform into the laundry hamper. Policeuniforms were a polyester/rayon blend that recommended drycleaning. I had three uniforms, but since I couldn’t afford aregular dry-cleaning bill, I washed them in cold water andhung them up immediately. I planned to take them to the drycleaners periodically just to keep the seams intact. Afterpaying my rent, I saved most of my paycheck and lived off abudget. As a result, my trips to Target were few and far

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between, and eating out was something I did once, maybetwice a week. I even doubled-up on makeup wipes, using someof them twice.

Adulting is hard…After I stepped into a zebra onesie and zipped it up, I

removed my contacts, sent a quick I-didn’t-die text to my fatherand Dylan, and crawled into bed—calling it quits for a fewhours.

“You’re safe,” Dylan said for the umpteenth time.“And Pope is taking care of it,” my father, Murphy, added.I hadn’t relished telling either of them and thought a three-

way call could kill two birds with one stone.Fat Louie was the subject of a massive dragnet, a BOLO

being placed on him and his organization as of this morning.Las Vegas police were even involved, and Ramsey and I hadbasically been told to keep our eyes open, even when we wereasleep.

“So he says,” I told them. “Thank God Louie was not asuccessful kidnapper, but can I confess the whole thing makesme want to bloodhound Fat Tony myself? I want a face-to-face,just so I can haul his fat butt to jail.”

Both were quiet for a while, my words turning over in theirminds like taffy on a stretching machine—shouting, Isurmised, that I was barely thirty-days in and still not satisfied.As a police officer, my urges were definitely somewhatcorralled, but Fat Tony made that still, small voice inside mescream I needed to take care of my enemies myself.

“I get that,” Dylan finally said in a rich baritone voice. “I’mgoing to pray God gives you something to occupy you in themeantime that you will enjoy.”

“Prayer’s a given,” my father grunted, “but me personally?

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I’m going to pray Tony Falco chokes on a chicken wing andwinds up in Hell.”

Disconnecting, I glanced around the room decorated like apage right out of Joss & Main. Twice the size of my bedroomback home, it was painted gray and white, minimalist andmodern in design with a skylight that lit up the room withoutflipping on a lamp. A white desk sat in a corner along with acomfy, white leather couch Lucky crashed on daily for a nap. Aflatscreen TV hung on the wall that had prime viewing from allangles, and underneath it was a beanbag large enough for twopeople.

Dylan and I had given that beanbag a workout last time hevisited. I sighed at the sweaty memory and keyed in thenumber to make a daily video call to Kellan Sutherland, knownin the Cincinnati, Ohio, organized crime syndicate as Jaws.

We’d first become acquainted my sophomore year in highschool. How did I develop a relationship with someone inthe mob?

It was simple. He had something I needed.Jaws was formerly in a gang called River City Smugglers,

and I’d personally reached out to RCS through a friend togather street noise on two other gangs in Cincinnati. Jaws hadnot been the leader of RCS, but they dissolved when theirleader was assassinated, Jaws continued with the life, buildinghis own empire.

When Jaws answered that phone call, he honored myrequest and provided the names of who was in a gang at myschool at warp speed. In vintage Jaws fashion, he was instru-mental in saving my life when one of those people attempted tokill me.

Why, you might say, would someone in organized crimeeven take a high schooler seriously? Not known to me untillater, Jaws and his brother had some sort of relationship withmy late mother and aunt. When he heard my name—having a

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light bulb moment of his connection with my family—ourfriendship was formed.

Sitting up in bed, I adjusted my blankets and listened to theFaceTime trill thingy, waiting for him to answer. At first, we’donly had interactions via telephone. Later, we upgraded to afew face-to-face chats, and since I’d moved out West, we haddaily telephone or FaceTime sessions. Whatever job or respon-sibilities Jaws held in his organization, he purposely rearrangedhis schedule, so we could talk about what I’d experienced thenight before. Where we’d previously chatted after my after-noon run, we now normally spoke while I drove home at thebutt-crack of dawn—somewhere between seven-thirty andeight-thirty a.m.

Something out of the ordinary was going down in his worldbecause I’d received a text that he couldn’t speak to me at thenormal time and to phone later.

When Jaws answered, my eyebrows climbed. He was in abathroom, surrounded by expensive dark marble accents. I sawhis naked chest, full of an impressive set of muscles thatbelonged on a Roman statue. Jaws had the appeal of a fallenangel, and seeing him partially naked reminded me how muchI liked to sin.

He scrubbed at his wet, dark brown hair with a towel.“Hello, Jester,” he murmured underneath the thick, white cloth.

Jaws was the first person I’d test-driven my alter ego’s nameof Jester.

I lived my life believing there were degrees of evil. Robberywasn’t as bad as shoplifting. Voyeurism wasn’t as bad as rape.Insider trading wasn’t as bad as Ponzi schemes. Terroristicthreatening wasn’t as bad as torture. Assault wasn’t as bad asmurder. That was the way I justified my relationship with Jaws.I suspicioned he had first-hand knowledge of all thosescenarios (except rape…women disrobed for him of their ownaccord). Case in point? I saw the reflection of some dingbat in

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the mirror. She was thin, brunette, and looked like she existedon a diet staple of salad and Fiji water.

“Jester?” he murmured again when I went speechless. Hetossed the white towel somewhere offscreen and found myeyes. His whiskey-colored gaze narrowed, full of concern. “Youokay, babe?”

I fumbled around with the black Ray-Ban eyeglasses on mynose. “Just soaking up the scenery,” I mumbled. He was such awhore.

Jaws had introduced a woman to me named Bianca Holt afew months back. She was the first and only woman he’d givena name, although I’d seen many different faces and voices ofwomen over the years. Apparently, that relationship imploded,just like his morals.

“Baby?” I heard.Her voice was too sweet, and she had that lights-are-on, but-

no-one’s-home thing going on in her eyes. Hey, it was Jaws’business.

Jaws never kissed her goodbye, but he whispered somethingin her direction, and she slinked out of the room in a pink silkrobe. Mercy, she was dressed like Barbie. That should becriminal.

Once we were alone, I told Jaws the events of my last shift.He carried his phone with him into a huge walk-in closet. Prop-ping it up on a shelf, he opened a drawer, pulling a white T-shirt over his head. “You have to be kidding me,” was hisresponse to Ramsey and me paying another little visit to theGarcias.

“One hundred percent true,” I told him. “Wouldn’t youthink they’d figure out they aren’t good for one another?”

“There’s a reason the word masochism is in the dictionary,Jester. It has a huge following.”

“Business good?” I asked. God only knew what it entailed,but I wasn’t used to him rescheduling a call between us.

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Jaws selected an expensive black shirt and slid one arminside and then the other, buttoning it up. He should bewinding down his day at the office, East Coast time. Maybehe’d pulled an all-nighter? “Yes, and busy,” he said. “Anythingelse?”

Gazing out my window, I caught a glimpse of the remainingleaves on a gold medallion tree. The wind was so fierce they’dalmost turned inside out, but somehow a vacant nest had hungon during the onslaught. “A guy named Fat Tony might have awee bit of an unhealthy obsession with me.”

Jaws halted the buttoning process, picking up his phoneand looking me dead in the eyes. “Expound more on this FatTony character.”

I reiterated that Fat Tony had sent Louie Dickerson to findme—leaving out the part about the use of force.

Jaws went back to buttoning up his shirt. “I’m concerned hesent an idiot to come look for you.”

“You worry too much.”“And you worry too little. It’s always a concern when

someone has personnel at their disposal like Louie Dickersonto do his dirty work. That insinuates some level oforganization.”

“Fat Tony is Vegas mob.”Jaws dropped an F-bomb followed by the words me and

mother.While Jaws pulled on some pants out of eyesight, I gave him

a play-by-play of how I’d met Fat Tony in the first place, brag-ging about winning four Gs in poker. It went left unsaid thatJaws would have a 10-20—or location—on Fat Tony for futurereference.

Jaws was back at his sink. He braced his hands on the edgeof it, hanging his head. “Four grand? I need a minute toprocess,” he mumbled. “And maybe a shot of bourbon.”

“Uh, I might not have a minute.”

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His head shot up. “Qualify,” he barked.“Louie Dickerson tried to kidnap me. He attacked me in the

squad car, but I burned him with the cigarette lighter that fellout of his pocket. So at least I got a little piece of him, which feltpretty darn good if I think about it.”

I high-fived the air. Jaws merely stared at my hand.After a series of blinks, he then unloaded every curse word

that was on the taboo list. “Is this a joke?” he hissed.His words hit me like a shotgun blast to the chest. I

breathed deeply, charging my lungs with a smell of lavendersleep spray I’d pumped onto my pillow to help me fall asleepfaster.

“I want a little bit of payback, okay? A one-on-one where Ican tell Fat Tony to take the L like a big boy and back off.”

Jaws stood straight up, crossing his arms over his chest. I’dseen that look in Pope’s office a few hours prior. “You’re a policeofficer. You’re supposed to know when to walk away, Jester. Didyou tell your superiors?”

“No, I thought they might make me stand in the corner,” Isaid sarcastically. He rolled his eyes—something I wasn’t sureI’d ever seen him do. “Of course, I told them,” I admitted, “butI’ve never backed down from someone trying to take a bite outof my freedom.”

He cocked his head to the side, one eyebrow raised with hisdemeanor doing a complete-180. “You have rules now,” he saidcalmly.

“Yeah, well there’s that.”“And you don’t do rules.”He made it sound so dirty. “Are you going to help me or

not?” I asked. My irritation was growing by leaps and bounds. Ipulled the zebra hood of my onesie over my head, defiant like ateenager out of control.

Jaws left the bathroom and returned with a laptop. I heard afew keystrokes. While he typed around on whatever his

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personal databank was, I slid out of bed and strode downstairsto get a bottled water, taking my phone with me. Alexandra hadnot only left me a meal in the refrigerator, she had written anote that said fresh cookies were in the cookie jar that didn’tcontain Lucky’s treats. Lifting the lid, I snagged a white choco-late and macadamia nut cookie for breakfast and padded backupstairs.

“Babe, I don’t like what I’m reading here,” he said. Jawsfound a rap sheet and FBI file on Antonio “Fat Tony” Falco thatincluded money laundering in strip clubs, laundromats, andloansharking. What exactly was laundering? Fat Tony wouldobtain revenue from some source illegally and then attempt toclean it up by claiming his laundromat did more business thanit actually did. With regard to strip clubs? The same principleapplied, but some of the females actually prostituted them-selves. Stripping was legal. Prostitution was not. And Fat Tony,or those in his employ, would broker those sorts of liaisons.

Stand-up guy.I channeled my inner-glass-half-full persona. “That’s not so

bad, I guess. It’s not like he’s selling weapons-grade plutonium.”Jaws grabbed my eyes. “Right,” he snarled sarcastically,

“because that’s a million times worse than sending someone tokidnap a female. Did you forget what you did for eighty fuckingdays? If you forgot what it was like to be kidnapped, let meremind you how bad it was. Worst eighty days of my life.”

I had an unscheduled eighty-day vacation in high schoolbecause of a man who’d decided to come back from the deadand wreak havoc on my father. Everyone thought him to belounging next to Satan, but we crossed paths when I’d beendoing recon for Jaws on a job he’d given me. It turned out hewas the man obsessed with my mother who had killed her. Thedetails of that abduction weren’t much different from the situa-tion with Fat Tony. Both had sent others in their employ toperform the deed.

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Jaws had obviously never made peace with his involvement.I, however, simply considered it a bullet on my personal

dossier.Balancing my cookie between my teeth, I unscrewed the lid

on my water. “Fat Tony does not intimidate me,” I said betweena bite of cookie and H2O chaser.

“Listen to me,” he said with a stern, dramatic pause. “Thefile says he gets obsessed with young women. And those hedoesn’t groom to become strippers wind up missing.”

I didn’t know that, but I had experience with that type ofman. “Maybe it’s destiny?” I questioned. “If I wouldn’t haveplayed Fat Tony, then I wouldn’t have won. And if I wouldn’thave won, then Fat Tony wouldn’t have come after me. And ifFat Tony wouldn’t have sent Louie, then I wouldn’t have foundout he wanted to kidnap me. Plus, Dylan said a prayer for meabout fifteen minutes ago that God would send me something Iwould enjoy. The way I see it? Maybe it’s all divine, so don’tworry.”

Jaws pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can see God’s Handin the whole thing,” he quipped. “Jester?” he added. “It’s hardfor me to take you seriously with a zebra head framing yourface. Babe, in many ways you are still a child. Carry that gunwith you at all times, understood?”

Jaws had phoned wanting to know what gift he could sendto commemorate the earning of my please-shoot-at-me certifi-cate in October. Problem was, I wasn’t the type of girl whomade Pinterest vision boards of her dream clothes or wedding.I was the type who squealed when someone bought me a newhandgun. Which was exactly what Jaws had done when I grad-uated. It was a sleek Sig Sauer P365 micro-compact that shot9mm Luger. He’d named her Reason, perfect for concealedcarry.

Why was it the perfect gift? It had no serial number.

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CHAPTER 5

BUMP & RUN

911 call came over the radio, reporting a bump-and-runon Rockingham Avenue at four a.m.-ish the next shift,

early Friday morning. A bump-and-run was a vehicle theft,performed when a car idled at a light or stop sign. The automo-bile behind would bump the car, and when the driver who’dbeen hit exited to inspect for damages and/or exchange insur-ance information, an accomplice would jump in the car thevictim left unattended and speed away. The accomplice wasusually in the passenger seat of the auto that had done thebumping, and then both would drive off with both vehicles,leaving the victim standing with one less car and a whole lot ofheadache.

When citizens phoned 911, their phone number determinedwhich call center (or Dispatch) received the call for assistance.Once the call was received, the trained staff at Dispatch routedto the appropriate first responder whether that be police, fire,or EMS (emergency medical services) after a series of scriptedquestions. The call was then placed in the system by priorityand dispatched to the next available unit. Our job as police offi-cers was to have the frequency on our two-way Motorola radiosor rover (meaning Remote Out of Vehicle Emergency

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Response) turned to whatever precinct we belonged to, so wecould accept a call.

A bump-and-run where there were no injuries was routedto police officers.

Ramsey and I were close by, so I spoke into the Motorolastrapped over my left shoulder, telling Dispatch we would bethe responding patrol unit.

Flipping on the flashers with accompanying siren, Ramseysaid his usual once we were en route. “Let’s crash the net, Walk-er,” which was hockey lingo for going full speed to the net tofind a rebound or loose puck.

Ramsey and I rolled up on a striking, leggy brunette tenminutes later who appeared to be looking up and down thestreet for the Lamborghini she’d reported stolen. In Hollywood,tall, beautiful women were a dime a dozen. Thing was, I didn’trecognize her, but a camera crew had already circled her and aman who was a movie star.

“Holy cow,” I said to Ramsey as I slid my fingers around thedoor handle. “The paparazzi are out at this hour? Must be acelebrity.”

Flashing bulbs were one thing I still had trouble gettingaccustomed to. Cameras were everywhere, especially if theyhad been following a celebrity and tried to get the money shot.

“Let’s find out who the car belongs to,” he said.All LAPD vehicles were equipped with a mobile data termi-

nal. It was a laptop that was locked in place. We could check ifvehicles were stolen by running license plates through anational database. We could also run rap sheets or check foractive warrants.

I typed the license plate into the system and got a hit backthat the car belonged to Joshua L. Bradley.

I whistled. “Car belongs to Josh Bradley.”Ramsey slid the car into park. “Make sure to smile and say

cheese.”

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Josh Bradley was the biggest romantic/action lead to hit thescreen in the last decade. Bradley had taken a sabbatical ofsorts in the last year. He went to Mecca and came back toHollywood bound and determined to write an inspirationalnovel and make cheese…as if he needed more cash. Last I read,his latest movie alone had been a guaranteed eight figures justby showing up on set, and that didn’t take into account theresiduals once the film released.

Ramsey and I flip-flopped the lead on all our calls. Whenapproaching someone on the street, one officer was contact, andthe other was cover. The contact spoke first, and it was my turnto kick off the questioning.

According to Dispatch, Poppy Landers phoned in the call,and the woman in front of us looked like a Poppy. Her namewas normal enough by LA standards, but her significant other—and I could tell by the way he was touching her—was anabsolute smoke show…as in smokin’ hot. Caucasian, Bradleywas head and shoulders above the crowd, dressed in a gray T-shirt and shorts like he’d just exited the gym.

Onscreen, Bradley was a woman’s dream: sensitive, atten-tive, and the type to help you wade through your problems andoffer solutions. In reality, tabloids claimed he was barelycontained savagery, with a temper more combustible than anactive volcano. Just my two cents’ worth? If it wasn’t a merepersonality trait, in Hollywood, that could mean a couple ofthings—too much blow, alcohol, or too many prescriptionmeds. I’d bank on the latter because Bradley was busted forDUI on New Year’s Eve last year and blamed his failure of thefield sobriety test on his Rx medication.

I was a below average student in high school, but inter-viewing victims came second nature. Some victims radiated aquiet shock. Others were angry from the get-go and tried torally the masses to hang the one who’d wronged them bysundown. Unfortunately, and most usually, criminal acts didn’t

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solve themselves that easily. As an officer on the street, my jobwas to answer the call, establish an honest rapport, documentthe complaint, get a signature that an official charge was beingreported, and then turn it into the appropriate detective tofollow up on.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, I turned on my bodycamto document the call. Cameras flashed as we strode toward thevics, and by the sniffling of the woman who I assumed wasPoppy, I knew instinctively she’d been driving when someonedecided to reduce Bradley’s auto inventory and take ownershipof the Lambo. Bradley noticed her tears, pulling her into hisarms and dropping a kiss on the top of her head. Poppy meltedinto him, swallowing down a yelp. From my limited time inCali, I’d found the current trend in women was on the slidingscale of super skinny to super shapely. Poppy leaned toward thevoluptuous end and had a lot of junk in her trunk, bootypopping all over the place. When Bradley whispered encour-agement, she swallowed down the tears and looked at Ramseyand me. God love her, she thought their relationship wasforever, but Hollywood was full of disposable arm candy. Poppycould be around one week, but a good chance existed, she’d bereplaced by the next…or sooner.

Early twentysomething, Poppy shot a sheepish smile myway, but then as most victims do, her gaze went straight to theman with the badge, thinking he had more clout—and super-powers—than the officer with ovaries.

Ramsey fell in behind me as I strode up to Poppy andBradley.

“Hello, I’m Officer Walker,” I said. “I understand from thecall that came in that someone stole your Lamborghini. Canyou tell me exactly what happened?”

Poppy stared at my mouth like she couldn’t comprehendthe words that had come from it. Bradley, however, looked mesquare in the face and extended his hand for a firm shake.

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The moment I shook his hand, there were more flashes oflight with a pap asking Bradley for a full grin. He didn’t give itto them, but he did tilt his body at a better angle.

After I gave them a dose of the I’m sorrys, I removed my PNB(police notebook) from my pocket, ready to take dictation. Offi-cers carried small notebooks wherein we wrote dictation fromthe individual lodging the complaint—detailing the who, what,when, where, and why of it all. For me, each case was a pagewhere I ended with a small diagram of the incident withvehicle positions, etcetera. I enjoyed the Picasso type of the jobsince my artistic skills were better than average.

Poppy reiterated what she’d told Dispatch. According toPoppy, she was driving alone and idling at the stoplight whenher bumper was struck by the vehicle behind her. Devastatedby “the damage to Joshy’s car,” she’d exited the Lambo to talk tothe driver who had hit her. By the time she’d made it to thedriver’s side door, the white Lambo was being driven off by theperson who had been a passenger in the black Caddy SUV thathad bumped her.

The black Caddy then peeled out—following the Lambo—leaving Poppy speechless.

“Did you get a look at the person who took your car?” Iasked. “You know, the guy who’d been a passenger in the blackCaddy?”

Poppy hugged herself, needing comfort beyond whatBradley provided. “Tall man,” she said, blinking big brown eyesin shock. “Like my Joshy. White. Skinny. Light brown hair.”

“What about the driver who bumped you?”“She was pretty. Long, black hair. About your height. Round

face. A little sketchy though.”“How so?”“She looked like she’d been up for days,” she explained.

“She was nervous.”Probably needed a hit of something, I thought. After Poppy

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provided more details, I penciled a quick diagram of the inter-section, adding the cars in the exact locations where Poppyclaimed they had been.

“Where were you at this time, Mr. Bradley?” I asked him.“At the gym. Poppy was on her way to pick me up. I can

provide pics of that if you need it.”“We’re going to need it,” Ramsey said.While Bradley showed us images on his phone of him

pumping iron in a local gym—and taking photographs withfans—he unleashed that million-dollar charm. “Hey, can I takea photo with you?” he asked me. Bradley pulled his T-shirt overhis head, ready for a closeup.

“With me?” I asked in shock. We were near the end of ourshift, and I had enough baggage under my eyes to fill anAlaskan cruise boat.

Ramsey came out of left field, giving Bradley his unsolicitedviewpoint while he still spoke with Poppy. “And why would youneed Officer Walker’s photograph?” he muttered our way.

Bradley again gave his best profile to the cameras. “I want toshow Officer Walker’s face to my producer. I could use her inmy next movie. We’re going to start filming in the next fewmonths. Girl, the camera’s gonna love you,” he said to me.“You’re adorable.”

Poppy’s eyes widened in shock. “But what about your novel,baby?”

Bradley glanced heavenward as though God was speakingdirectly to him. “I’m thinking I need to put it on hold.”

Poppy blinked. A part of me felt sorry for her. Chances wereshe would be dealing with two big Ls soon—loss of the Lamboand loss of a lover.

“But you said you felt the spirit telling you to guide people,”she refuted.

My guess was money was guiding him more. Bradley forcedme into a selfie as I continued to write up the report. I gave him

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zero smile, and when he asked for a profile shot, I gave him theback of my head. The paparazzi found that funny. One of themore aggressive types then had the gall to straight up ask for apic of his infamous six-pack abs. Bradley sighed, removing theT-shirt he’d just tugged back on. He obviously didn’t mindbeing sexually objectified.

“I can tell you’re lukewarm on the idea,” he said to me, sigh-ing. He threw his shirt over his shoulder. “But if I don’t get thispicture to the producer today, the studio might go with thatbimbo who just put out her own makeup line. That stuff isshit,” he said with a scoff.

“Yeah, it’s shit,” Poppy echoed, adding her own scoff.Hey, that’s showbiz.

I gave Poppy an ink pen to sign her official report. She tookthe pen from my hand, and either nerves had gotten the bestof her or she didn’t know how to operate a BIC. I clicked thetop with my thumb and literally placed the pen to paper,requesting a signature. When Poppy scrawled out her one-named signature in a flowery script, I ripped the sheet ofpaper from my pad, handing it to her along with my businesscard.

“Come on, Officer Walker,” Bradley flirted when I remindedPoppy to phone if she remembered anything else. “Thecamera’s gonna love that face.”

I wore size twenty-seven jeans. Very little about my bodyproduced a ripple of excitement on the male hormones. It saidfarmhand.

“I’m cool where I am,” I said.“You sure? Couldn’t you use some extra cash?”Extra green would always be great, but no...“I’m just going to pick up some detail work,” I said.“I can get you detail work,” he said. “Besides, this job is way

too dangerous for someone like you.”I’d just been insulted but let it slide. Unfortunately, it wasn’t

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the first time someone had sounded off on my career choice,unsolicited. “I’m good.”

Bradley wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Hey, maybe I over-stepped. I’m producing a movie that’s coming out earlysummer, and we’re doing a few reshoots now. Would you like tosecurity guard on set? It might be a haul for you to get to thelocation, but I’ll make sure money is good.”

I could use the money, but I didn’t have the typical M-F gig,so scheduling would be hard. Besides, I didn’t think it would beapropos to receive a favor from someone like Josh Bradley.

The man went swami and read my mind. “Listen, I assumeyou’re on the night shift here, but they shoot a lot in theevening and at all times of the week. Let me make a call. I canguarantee you a job.”

Bradley went for the hard sell, sliding his bulky arm aroundmy shoulder and pulling me close. More than likely it wasnothing more than your average flirting, but I didn’t like itwhen someone’s hands were close to my gun. I maneuvered outof his reach and took a step backward.

“Thank you, but I’ve found my calling. Sorry about the car,”I said, turning to Poppy. “I’ll give the incident report to Detec-tive Riley Shafer, and he’ll follow up with you in the next day orso. He’s thorough, so if the car can be found, he’ll sniff it outlike a foxhound.”

“You say such nice things,” I heard a deep voice boom frombehind.

The loud slam of a car door had me glancing over myshoulder and out sauntered Detective Riley Shafer from anunmarked police car. Shafer worked days, so why he was upthis early insinuated he was working on something he feltneeded the extra hours. A detective assigned to robbery in theRobbery-Homicide Division, he was tall at six foot three withsandy-blond hair and icy-blue eyes. Having the muscles of theIncredible Hulk, we’d met my first week in the academy when

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he’d volunteered to help with our physical evaluations. He laterjoined me during a ride-along when I picked up extra cash as adelivery driver. What started out to be a boring night shiftended with me on the floor of 7-Eleven being choked bysomeone I considered a friend.

Pizza delivery could be a tough field.After Ramsey brought Detective Shafer up to speed on the

particulars, I glanced around the crime scene. Security cameraswere angled at most storefronts, and I assumed they were inoperation because those particular clothing stores specializedin one of a kind pieces. This century’s runway models andBeverly Hills girls seemed to wear them in their downtimewhen they weren’t human billboards for fashion designers.Honestly, performing a bump-and-run in this neck of thewoods was a dumb move because once Shafer got the videofeed, he might be able to get a license plate and/or positive ID.Besides, two blocks up was a stretch of real estate that had noworking security cameras anywhere. Ramsey and I answered acall there the prior day when a woman opened her gallery andfound she was minus some pricey art. Her alarm didn’t go off,and the security cameras on the entire street were convenientlyblacked out with spray paint. So unless the owners got themreplaced within twelve hours, then my guess was they were stillblacked out.

Shafer pulled me aside as Bradley and his sidepiece posedfor the paparazzi. “Your name is all over the station, superstar.Fat Tony has quite the rap sheet. Do you need to take a vacationday? Maybe get out of the country?”

“I’m not afraid of Fat Tony.”Detective Shafer squinted his light blue eyes, like he was

thinking too hard. “You should be. Where was Ramsey whenthis was going down?”

Ramsey held more secrets than a priest, but I kept all ofthem. The last thing I would do would be to rat out my partner.

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“Community goodwill,” I said, not really lying because I waspretty sure whoever-she-was thought Ramsey was good.

“No one dishes out goodwill like, Ramsey,” he muttered,frowning in his direction. Eh, that meant Ramsey’s secret wasn’tso secret. “We’re going to shelve that thought for the moment,”he said. I inwardly rolled my eyes. For some reason, I attractedthe bossy alpha-type. “What do you think?” he asked me.

“Dumb suspect.”“Why?”I pointed to the two visible security cameras stationed at the

three o’clock position of where the car had been snatched.Poppy said the woman driver looked sketchy. Did she and/orthe actual thief need some quick cash? So much that they werewilling to overlook something that could potentially hangthem?

Shafer nodded. “Good, Walker.”“Chop shop?” I asked. A chop shop was a business or loca-

tion where stolen vehicles were literally chopped up—ordismantled—and the stolen parts were sold or used to buildand/or repair other stolen vehicles. Cars were scrubbed of vinnumbers with new ones applied, making tracing a stolenvehicle next to impossible. Cars would then be sold, and theowner wouldn’t have a clue to its origins.

Shafer pulled at his chin in deep concentration. “If they’regood, the Lambo is already stripped down with a new vinadded.”

I stared hard into the air where Shafer was staring, literallytrying to see what he saw. Shafer was one of best robbery detec-tives on the force. I wanted homicide, but it wasn’t like I’d turndown robbery if the opportunity ever arose. “So if the womandriver was strung out, do you think she was a stand-in?” I asked.

“Possibly. Normal driver could’ve been sick. Quit. Hadanother job offer elsewhere. Hell, he or she could have a legitday job. Any number of possibilities.”

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I drove home my point. “I still wouldn’t say she was thenormal driver. A normal driver is going to have this thing downto a science, knowing all the stops, starts, and turns along theway. In fact, the normal driver—or head of this ring—probablyeven follows Bradley on Twitter to find out what he’s doing.The person driving was an idiot. She was either under theinfluence or dumb because two more streets, and she wouldn’thave any security feed to worry about.”

Shafer glanced down the road to see what I referred to, eventhough it was dark. “And how would you know there’s no feed?”

I told Shafer about the art theft of the previous day.Shafer frowned, smacking his gum—something I’d noticed

he did when he was holding back his thoughts. “I didn’t hear ofthis case, and for a dollar value like that, I’m surprised it wasn’trouted to me immediately.”

“Detective Adler got the paperwork. At least, I gave it tohim, and he said he’d route it appropriately.” Detective GuyAdler and I aggressively disliked one another. He was an a-holechauvinist who obviously was stealing cases from Shafer.

Shafer got a strange look on his face but didn’tcomment. And I knew where that look originated. There hadbeen rumors Adler had requested a switch from homicide torobbery, claiming burnout. The switch hadn’t happened yet,but if it did, Adler would have less seniority in that side of thebusiness than Shafer. Meaning he would chase down pettytheft like shoplifting, switching price tags in stores, eat-and-runs, and watch-and-runs. An art gallery would automaticallygo to Shafer because it was grand larceny, but Adler obviouslystole it. The goon was trying to pad his résumé before he evenhad the job.

Shafer blew out a measured breath. “The detective gig iscoming, Walker,” he said. “Just do your time, and you know I’min your corner.” He then grinned, pitching his head to Bradley.

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I pivoted around, and Bradley gave me a circle wave, contin-uing with the hard sell and mouthing, “Call me.”

Shafer chuckled, but the sound was little on mirth. “You’renot falling for that, are you?”

“I’m more than a cheap bottle of wine and a movie,” Imuttered.

Shafer leaned down in my space. “He wouldn’t give youcheap wine, Walker. It would probably be a bottle of Dom.”

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W

CHAPTER 6

REDNECK RANCH

e answered a call for assistance on the WatsonBrothers lot a little after five thirty a.m. A scuffle had

broken out on the Redneck Ranch set between stars, and securitywas having trouble containing it. According to Dispatch, awhite male pulled a knife on another white male, and when theshowrunner tried to break up the fight, he inadvertently gotclocked in the face. Apparently, the showrunner wasn’t lovedon set, and once it dawned on the cast he had a bloody mouthand nose, another hillbilly-for-hire shot off a pipe bomb incelebration.

Impact had produced a few injuries.I needed a nerve pill.I’d seen a few episodes of Redneck Ranch since it was Pixie

Taylor’s guilty pleasure, and it had quite the cult followingacross the world. The story centered around the life of BubbaJoe Howard, his new horse farm, and his on-again/off-againwife Joylinn. And more recently, her college sweetheart, RayDonn Knight.

With accents and redneck dialect too indigenous and chal-lenging to understand, some episodes included subtitles. Onething a viewer could count on, though, was drama. And drama

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happened when Bubba Joe decided to try his hand at horsebreeding just because Ray Donn Knight’s family had bred aTriple Crown champion. Right out of the gate, Bubba Joe struckgold with a horse that won several races, making him a ton ofcash. But he also bought several horses as a follow-up thatshould’ve gone straight to the glue factory. Watching theHowards acclimate to their newfound wealth and inability topick a horse that would make bank was entertainment at itsfinest. Add in beer-guzzling, women wrestling pigs, armpit andknee farting, and a weekly feast of deep-fried, unnamedreptiles, and it was enough to land them in the top ten Nielsenratings weekly.

After gate security gave us the all-clear, we were directed toan approved parking space in front of the particular set wewere visiting. Once Ramsey turned off the engine, I exited thecar, stretching. At this time of my shift, my coordination couldget sloppy. Ramsey and I usually hit up a liquor or conveniencestore for snacks and to get a quick coffee, but since the callcame in, we couldn’t get any extra calories.

Peachy-pink streetlamps lit the way to the big metalbuilding with a number eleven on the door. Twisting the door-knob and pushing it wide, it was like we’d run into a buzzsaw ofSouthern motifs and stereotypes. One side had been dedicatedto the redneck or hillbilly side of the family including a rusty,white trailer and dilapidated house with a wrecked Camaro oncinderblocks in front. Four-wheelers were parked in the shareddriveway next to a black monster truck that had the teeth of avampire on its hood.

The opposite portion of the lot held a red brick mansionwith white columns that Bubba Joe and Joylinn resided in. Awhite Mercedes sat next to a white Cadillac and a white DodgeRam truck in a circle drive. A speedboat a little on the ostenta-tious side was housed in a separate unattached garage with thename Joylinn’s Joy in black cursive.

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Being on a movie set wasn’t glamorous. Weather machineswere in constant motion as well as saws and hammers, kickingup clouds of dust with the changing construction and tinkeringof a set.

By the looks of things, the cast had been in the middle of anearly morning shoot because nearly twenty people stood infront of a country store on the hillbilly side of the set. Blue jeanoveralls and different shades of flannel and lengths of mulletsstood mouths agape, trying to take in the unexpected turn ofevents. Intermingled between were designer jeans and collegesweatshirts from the University of Kentucky and University ofLouisville. Throw in a Harvard and it was as diverse as diversecould be.

As soon as our presence was noted, we were approached bylot security, a young man no older than eighteen or nineteenwho looked like his life had just flashed before his eyes. Hebrought us up to speed with a story virtually the same asDispatch had given.

When two people were involved in an altercation of anykind, officers split up, and one would interview one of thevictims with the second officer interviewing the other. Ramseyhad opened his mouth to speed things along, but an older mancame forward with hands raised in a sorry-to-have-bothered-you pose—like the phone call had been a mistake fromminute-one. I wasn’t so sure his brain was firing right, andwhile his lips moved, I realized a front tooth had been brokenoff at the root.

My right hand strayed to my gun. It was an impulse reac-tion whenever we encountered a domestic—something Iattributed as the need to survive.

“Good morning, officers. I’m Roland Holiday,” he said,“showrunner of Redneck Ranch. It appears there has been amisunderstanding.”

The showrunner was the leading producer on a television

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set, outranking the writers and directors. In short, Holiday hadthe final creative and management say-so.

Ramsey squinted his eyes, focusing on Holiday’s teeth—orlack thereof. “A broken tooth is definitely not a misunderstand-ing,” he said.

The showrunner spread his mouth wide, mimicking atoothpaste commercial, offering a destroyed smile and thou-sands of dollars’ worth of dental work to come. “This?” he said,pointing to the gap and running his tongue over the stub. “Ihad too much to drink and fell…but I’m obviously of age,” hequickly added, “so my drinking should be a moot point.”

Holiday’s more salt than pepper hair was tailored but longenough to hit his shoulders in a style seen more on someonehalf his age. He sported dark jeans and a custom navy sweaterwith the Redneck Ranch logo embroidered over the heart. On hisfeet were a pair of red Chuck Taylors. I guessed him to be in hissixties, and his shoes reminded me of an old-guy-trying-too-hard.

Who I recognized as Joylinn Howard pushed through thecrowd of congregating flannel. Her coal-black hair had adramatic widow’s peak down the middle, and it was bundled atthe nape in a messy ponytail with a scarlet ribbon wrappedaround it in a bow. “Hello, officers,” she said to us. “I’m Joylinn,and that’s not what happened.” Joylinn’s pink-painted grinmight’ve been broad, but it was a cloaking device. She wasangry or irritated. Maybe both. Fishing her arm through Holi-day’s, she attempted to arrest control of the conversation. “Heshould’ve never been brought onto the cast. It’s been nothingbut trouble since he got here.”

Joylinn’s black eyes electrified, sizzling like two steaks on agrill.

Who’s she speaking about? Ray Donn? The ex?

Holiday patted the arm Joylinn had linked through his,trying to comfort her—or perhaps defuse. I wasn’t sure. “Trust

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me,” he murmured to Ramsey and me. “Everything is fine, offi-cers. This week’s script got a little out of hand. Sometimes thathappens.”

Ramsey pulled out his PNB, flipping open to a clean page totake dictation. “So everything that happened here tonight…thefight…the missing tooth…the pipe bomb…all of that wasscripted?”

Holiday grinned big, giving us another glimpse of hisbloody nub. “Well, not the tooth, but the rest…yes.”

I call bullsh*t.

Holiday shooed Joylinn off with an arm squeeze, andwhen she strutted off with a humpf and her nose in the air,Ramsey exhaled. “Normally, I would say there were violationsof California Penal Code 415 and Penal Code 417. Since youare claiming everything was scripted, Mr. Holiday, there isn’t alot I can do for you unless you want to charge whoever hityou and knocked out your tooth. That is battery under thelaw.”

Commonly known as disturbing the peace and brandishinga weapon respectively, Ramsey explained to get a conviction,the prosecutor had to prove someone hit someone—or drew aweapon—in the presence of another person. One look at theeyes on the set, no one intended on saying anything, let alonecorroborate the story the security guard had relayed.

And why was that? Because if we hauled someone off to jail,then production would halt, and halting production would be aloss of God only knew how many dollars.

When officers could not prove a law had been broken forlack of evidence or lack of witness cooperation, they couldwrite up an incident report so if it happened again, a recordwas on file. Ramsey explained that to Holiday and the cast,informing them the report could then be used as evidence if acase should ever go to trial.

Hillbilly Number One came forward. “Well, why would we

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want an incident report? These things need to be taken care ofby family.”

“And you are?” Ramsey asked.“Cletus,” he replied. Cletus dangled his arm around a man

next to him who I recognized as Ray Donn Knight.“No last name?” Ramsey said sarcastically.“Don’t need one,” he explained. “I’m like Britney, Madonna,

Cher, and Lady Gaga. People know me just by saying myname.”

In the South, formal names would oftentimes only be usedfor birth and death certificates. So if you didn’t have a nick-name, chances were someone didn’t think you were importantenough in the family narrative. As a consequence, most on theshow had legally adopted one-name monikers.

It didn’t take long to figure out that the two men fightinghad been Ray Donn Knight and Cletus—who after some prod-ding admitted his surname was legally Owens. As a rule, wenormally referred to suspects and vics by their last names—oreven victim one or victim two. With names like Ray Donn andCletus, I couldn’t deny my mouth the enjoyment of saying theirnames. One look at Cletus, white male number one, and RayDonn, white male number two, and they could not be morediametrically opposed. With long, brown hair that resembled acaveman, Cletus wore bibbed overalls with a camo wife-beaterunderneath. Ray Donn was clad in tailored khaki pants with awhite button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. A loose red tiehung from his neck. The clothing choices weren’t the onlydifferences. Cletus had a bloody mouth and Ray Donn had oneblacked eye, a puffy lip, and a nose that was so mangled thejury was out on whether it had been broken. Red marks stainedhis neck. Someone had strangled him—or at least given theprocess the old freshman try.

Still resting my right hand near my gun, I said, “I under-stand that rationale. Just out of curiosity, can you tell me why

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you’d want to hit Ray Donn anyway? I’ve seen the show. Big fan.Watch it every week,” I lied.

“But I didn’t hit Ray Donn,” Cletus refuted. His dark eyesnarrowed into small holes—a characteristic emphasized by acrooked mouth that was two sizes too large for his face.

Ah, so Cletus was smarter than what I’d given him credit.“Hypothetically speaking, of course,” I said.

Cletus opened the metaphorical floodgates, claiming theargument was between two cousins over a woman. Of course,it was.

“Someone broke someone else’s heart by cheating with hiswoman,” Cletus said. “That person’s a traitor.”

Ray Donn Knight’s face went blood-red—so bright youcould see it from outer space. “That someone else’s marriage toAlicia was over,” he replied flippantly.

Cletus issued a counter-argument. “You don’t cheat withfamily. If you’re gonna cheat, make sure it’s with a stranger orthe woman of some man you hate!”

That argument did hold some water.By the self-righteous venom spewing from Cletus’ veins, I’d

lay money he was the one wronged.Ray Donn crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, Alicia told

me you had something with Harley last year. And she’s you’rebloody third cousin.”

Ooohhh. Juicy. Cletus Owens couldn’t keep his beast incheck either.

“Ancient history,” Cletus said in a double snort.Holiday stepped between them like he mentally tried to

untangle an octopus hellbent on crushing a scuba diver. “Okay,that’s enough, fellas,” he interjected. “This is getting embar-rassing.”

Seriously. It was just getting good.One thing about the South, they didn’t hide from their sins

for long. One might have the initial embarrassment, but before

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long, the figurative pregnant female would be sitting on thefront row church pew all but convinced her baby was immacu-late and nothing short of Jesus reincarnate. Part of that wasbecause Southerners felt there was a purpose for everything—even down to their ugliest of sins.

Holiday maneuvered himself between Cletus and RayDonn. “Officers, we appreciate your prompt service, but if youdon’t mind, we’d like to keep shooting the scene.” Placing apalm on each man’s chest, he pushed them backward, givingthem that time-is-money face. Once they melted into thecrowd, Holiday turned back to me, his brown eyes lasering onmy rear end. “You have a nice ass.”

Okurrrrr. Sexually inappropriate. “Uh, thank you?” I said inshock.

He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “No, I mean a reallynice ass.” He gazed at my rear end as though he were evaluatingthe stock market.

“Thank you again,” I mumbled.Still sizing up my glutes, he added, “Fern needs a body

double. More specifically an ass double. Need a job?” Heglanced over his shoulders and yelled for Fern to show herself.A few seconds later, a pudgy bottled blond in a triple-XLflannel shirt waddled forward in Daisy Dukes, embarrassed.

I’d had my fair share of body image issues, but Fern’s butthad more curds in it than a container of cottage cheese. Plus,her shorts were so short she had a denim wedgy. I didn’t knowhow they would sell a butt double to the audience, but I had afeeling the targeted demographic wasn’t the brainy type.

“Thank you for the compliment, but I’m happy.”Right before we left while enduring the standard we-love-

the-folks-wearing-blue speech, I scanned the cast. Not onlywere Ray Donn and his cousin, Cletus, bloody, but so wasBubba Joe—exhibiting a blackened eye that was growing. Itwas only at mere glance, but enough was said that I knew there

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was more to the story than what had been some good methodacting and creativity at the writer’s table. Where Cletus and RayDonn looked exhausted, Bubba Joe’s demeanor told mewhoever had struck him merely got in a good shot. Bubba Joewasn’t even winded—his somber face saying he was ready forround two.

At six-twenty in the morning, my mind was in neutral, and Iwasn’t really thinking about anything more than my bed. Sowhen Ramsey said he needed to use the restroom and return acall to his sometimes girlfriend, Monet Cruz, all I did was gruntwhen he headed for an all-night liquor store to use the facili-ties. Thing was, Ramsey barely had one wheel in the parkinglot before Monet, FaceTimed—wondering why he hadn’treturned her calls the three times prior.

“Answer that for me?” he asked.Oh, boy. I lifted his phone from the cup holder and slid my

finger across the screen, staring into Monet’s face.Hello, Buzzkill…I mean, “Monet,” I said out loud. “Barron’s

trying to find a parking space.”“Is that right?” she said tersely. “Well, tell him to turn

around.”He glanced up into the rearview mirror. “Oh, God,” he said.

“Please tell me she didn’t.”I shot a glance over my shoulder just in time to see Monet

flash her lights. Ramsey needed to reset his girlfriend buttonbecause Monet had reached a whole new level of stalker. Shehad to be listening to a scanner or at the least following our car.“Monet, go home,” he said into the screen.

Monet’s voice climbed. “I don’t want to go home. Comeback here and talk to me. What is it that you’ve been doing allnight?”

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Tall with raven-colored hair that held a hint of red, Monetwas a real punch to a woman’s ovaries, all right? She was beau-tiful and knew how to accentuate the positive. I’d never seenher slumming in jeans and a T-shirt. It was always designer-thisand designer-that, highlighting the curves of a 36-24-36 figure.Her South American features were undeniably modelesque.And Monet liked it when another woman knew it and came uplacking.

Ramsey squirmed in his seat. “My job, for starters,” hemuttered in answer.

Finding a vacant spot, he slid the automobile into it andturned off the engine, taking the phone from my hand.

Monet started screaming like a demon, possessed. Honestly,very little made sense, and I was pretty close to bilingual. Mynanny—translation, cheap baby-sitter—was Puerto Rican. Iwas not only fluent in the language but with South Americanslang in general. When I made out the phrase that there was“another man who understood her,” I mouthed the revelationto Ramsey.

“So there’s someone else?” he said, not in the least bitworried.

Ramsey angled his phone my way, so I could see. Monetanswered him with a nod, adding, “But I would like to be exclu-sive with you.”

She then added a visual of their wild monkey sex to closethe deal, which embarrassed Ramsey. Monet segued to whatshe was going to make for dinner that night—tacking on she’dbought him a new pair of pants and that the grass needed to bemowed, even in November. The random ramblings signaledshe was just this side of being inebriated or stoned to the pointof needing detox.

A problem that I recognized from day-one.Ramsey had introduced us my first night on the job, and I

saw the signs of drug use then. When Monet drove off in her

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silver Beemer, I glanced at him and word-vomited, She’s high.His simple answer was, Nothing new. It’s been a problem for close

to a year. Ramsey and I never spoke of her addiction on aregular basis, but I could see it in his face when she phoned. Hewould stare at her digits and wonder which Monet he wouldget. Sweet Monet or High Monet. Tragic thing was, every time Iwas in her presence, I felt like I needed to ready myself forchest compressions.

Fear or foreshadowing. My mind hadn’t decided yet.Monet flicked her lights off and on four times—not liking

that solution—then lay on the horn. Ramsey jumped, fearingshe would wake the families in the houses nearby. He brieflyglanced heavenward, muttering, “God, help me.” He spoke tome next, without turning to meet my eyes because he wasafraid not to surveil her. “Walker,” he said.

“I’ve got you,” I promised, placing my hand on the door toget out.

He shook his head, lukewarm on the idea. “Stay. She won’ttry anything, but watch her in case I’m wrong.”

For one braindead second, that felt like a good idea, butthen I had this fear the next time I saw Ramsey, it could besunny side up with his eyes fixed in the stare of the dead. Isighed. Against my better judgment, I stayed put but kept closewatch on Monet’s hands.

Ramsey opened his door, hand on weapon, and metMonet’s silhouette as she strode toward him.

She was a striking figure and was barefoot in navy, silkpajamas with mascara smudged underneath her lashes. Herhair, however, was still styled and in place—she hadn’t sleptyet, which meant she’d been up all night and hadn’t even laiddown on a pillow.

“Monet,” Ramsey said quietly, as if he dismantled a bombwith his mere voice. “Please, go home. We can talk later.”

Monet rolled her eyes like Ramsey was a complete moron.

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“I just want to be with you, baby, and would’ve been exclusive ayear ago, but you couldn’t kick old habits.”

“Being a police officer is not a habit. It’s a job.” Ramsey’svoice dropped a decibel.

Monet took a step toward him and grabbed his forearms.My nerves started prickling. That move made her one grabaway from Ramsey’s weapon. He latched ahold of her wrists,holding her hands in place. “Are you sure about that?” she said,and I knew she referred to me.

“I’m just the long-suffering partner,” I shouted through myrolled down window.

Monet painted on a sincere, fat, and cheesy smile. Thefemale in me knew it was fake.

“Sure you are,” she said, snorting another imaginary line ofcoke I was pretty sure she’d done minutes earlier.

Ramsey caught on quickly. “Are you using again, Monet?You swore to me you were done.”

Monet tried to sniff the evidence away. “I’m not using.”“I know the signs,” he said.She got up in his face. “Screw you, Barron. You’ve never

believed in me.”On that happy note, Monet turned on her bare feet while

Ramsey promised the air around him he would call her later.With a battle-worn sigh, he watched her back up and speedaway, then walked inside to use the facilities, once againclicking me inside with his key-fob like people did with theirpets. Reaching underneath my seat to locate a bag that had askein of dark gray yarn in it, I pulled it out along with somecrocheting needles to finish a scarf I was making Dylan forChristmas.

I then called up the newest episode of my favorite Mexicansoap opera on my cell phone.

One of the lead characters had an attempt on her life—someone laced her mojito with arsenic—and the next episode

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was slated to be the grand reveal of who the assassin had been.You know things have gone sideways when you’re in the middleof some good Mexican fighting and someone pounds a fist onthe window in a loud rap-rap-rap.

Startled by the noise, I fumbled my phone and dropped myknitting needles, whirling around to see the silver barrel of anine pointed right at my face. I breathed. The man breathed.And cue that on a repeat about six more times. The manholding the gun was Bunyanesque with dark, brown hair andthree necks on a round face that held zero cognition of rightfrom wrong. A short cigar hung out of one side of his mouth,and his beefy hand was so big that the gun he’d brandishedlooked like a toy. Should I take a chance? Go for my gun? Exitand attempt to talk him down?

My mind traveled back to Louie Dickerson. He might havethe mental aptitude of a garden rake, but at least he had validintel. He said Fat Tony would send someone else…and sureenough, he’d farmed out the job once more.

By the size of the man’s apple-shaped torso, I’d lay moneyhe visited the buffet with Fat Tony on a regular basis.

Sliding my left hand up to my chest, I activated mybodycam.

“Fat Tony sent you,” I screamed through the glass, “and ifhe wants his money back, you’re wasting your breath.”

“We understand Louie failed to execute the job Fat Tonygave him.”

Very diplomatically put. “Kidnap me? Or get his moneyback? I wasn’t quite sure what Louie was trying to accomplish,to be honest.” I took a quick five-second breather. “May I comeout?” I held up both hands, trying to show him I didn’t intendon pulling my gun…at least not yet. But I needed his nine out ofmy face. I’d been shot before—just a graze—but that burn wassomething I wanted to avoid at all costs. Emphasis on theavoiding part.

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The man lowered his nine to his side, giving me a wideberth to open my door and exit. Wearing a black shirt andwhite silk tie, he didn’t appear to be the kidnapping type.Considering his crappy sense of fashion choices, he stuck outlike a fly on a wedding cake.

When we stood face to face, he murmured, “Fat Tony wantsto offer you a job.”

I fought the urge to curl my hand around my GLOCK. If Idid, he might take aim and fire. If I didn’t, then I just might beable to glean where Fat Tony was living, so we could haul hisrear end in. And speaking of Fat Tony, what exactly was hisendgame? To pull the plug on me permanently once I dumblytraveled to Vegas?

“Doing what?” I asked.“Dealing or counting cards for him. You choose.”Unexpected, and I did a mental deep dive of my skills,

wondering if I could do it. “Tell him thanks for the job offer,”I answered, “but I have a great retirement plan with theforce.”

“You wouldn’t need a retirement plan with Fat Tony. He’sprepared to give you forty percent of every pot you bring in.”

Hard to pass up. “Can he add on free dental?” I said face-tiously.

“But Fat Tony said you liked him.”Let me put it this way, if I was a surgeon and Fat Tony was

my patient, I would intentionally leave a sponge in him. He hadmoney. I won it fair and square. That was the gist of our pastand future encounters.

“I’m going to be honest with you, uh…exactly what is yourname?”

“Vito Roselli.”“Listen, Vito Roselli. Fat Tony didn’t give me the butterfly-

in-the-tummy feeling, all right? I have a major beef withsomeone who has employees pull their nines on me. And that’s

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twice within the past twenty-four hours. Tell his royal fatnessthat he isn’t exactly making his job offer appealing.”

Roselli pulled the front of his shirt from the waistband ofhis pants and raised it to wipe his face, placing a beer belly andpasta gut on display for anyone who was in the market to losetheir appetite. After a few deep breaths, he held his chest likehe was in the middle of a cardiac infarction. “What’s wrongwith you?” I asked.

Roselli swallowed down a burp. “I’ve had indigestion allday. This isn’t normally my kind of gig.”

“So you’re just a gratuitous cameo then,” I said snarkily.“I’m a cameo everywhere, Walker. My kids barely talk to

me. My wife is in name only. All I have is this damn job, andhonestly…”

He took a step toward me, his hand still gripping his gun.My pulse quickened. “If you don’t back up, I’m going to

arrest you for theft on top of pulling a gun on an officer.”“What exactly did I steal?”“My air for starters. Back. Off.” Roselli grabbed his chest

again, wincing. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone to all thoseTaco Tuesdays with Fat Tony,” I said. I removed the cigar fromhis mouth, wondering if he was moments from going hori-zontal and if I’d have to perform CPR.

He glanced at the cigar in my hand, frowning. “I don’t like awoman who smokes.”

Heat flooded my face, a righteous indignation shootingthrough my core. “You know, you’re a major a-hole. I hadn’tplanned on smoking it.”

Roselli’s mouth curled into a grin. “Those words reallyscared the hell out of me.”

I added a, “Dammit.”The a-hole straight out chuckled. “Now I’m practically

pissing my pants.”

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Is it okay to hit him in the face? Like make a fist and swing for

the moon?

I wet my lips. “You seem to have a decent sense of humorbut crappy sense of timing. I get the feeling you don’t reallywant to hurt me. So what exactly were you trying to accomplishhere tonight?”

“I’d like to know that too,” Ramsey’s voice boomed frombehind. He placed his GLOCK at Roselli’s temple like amessage from God.

Vito Roselli looked like a guy who was without a chairwhen the music stopped. The next sequence of eventshappened before I could will back the hands of time. He madea sound like a dying animal, a feral grunt where he knew he’dgone someplace he’d never been before with no logical wayback. His legs collapsed underneath him, and his gun fell to theground. The crash caused his gun to discharge in a loud bang,striking an automobile beside us. Ramsey ducked, and I divedinto a midair roll. Even though I tried to right myself, my bodywouldn’t halt its forward progression, and I skinned my elbows,ripping the sleeves of my uniform. Roselli groaned and face-planted right before us. The fall wasn’t in the least bit coordi-nated. His legs scissored, and he bounced twice trying to nego-tiate with the asphalt—the concrete offering him cosmeticfacial reconstruction he hadn’t asked for.

Ramsey and I dropped to a squat beside him. Roselli wasfeverish and sweaty, and it took both of us to transfer him to hisside and onto his back. Pain lanced his face, and his jawlinecontorted in a grimace. His mouth moved in raw agony—likehe longed to say something.

True panic coursed through my veins. He was having aheart attack. I should’ve seen the signs. Couple his body typewith being a smoker, and he was a grenade where someone hadpulled the pin.

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While Ramsey dialed 911, I whispered, “Just hang tight, Vito.You’re going to be okay.”

He latched onto my eyes like they were the only thingkeeping him anchored to this world…

blinked once……and died.

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